The Flowers of Regret
by decoris
Summary: One journal. Twenty-five entries. Some written with blood and many with tear stains soaked into the brittle paper. With the demand to find Germany high, and the clock running out of time, will they ever find him? Canon Divergence/ Gerita. *GOING THROUGH REVISION*
1. All That Glitters Is Not Gold

Chapter One — All That Glitters Is Not Gold

...

The year was 1992.

The nations had held an Earth Summit on Environment and Development in the June of that summer. The meeting itself had only lasted two weeks, but for a meeting that didn't have Germany, it went surprisingly well. The people of Rio De Janeiro had been kind and hospitable, welcoming the foreign, accented strangers with sanguineness and geniality. The nations didn't take this act of kindness for granted, the pleasantry soothing their slight disquietude.

Nations and representatives communicated rather than shouted, and it seemed though as if they got just a _little_ bit closer to achieving their goals. And of course, the after party had been amazing as well with plenty of embarrassing stories to be told.

Yes, the nations were exhausted from the excitement that Brazil brought. That is why a month later, they would much rather be in front of a fan, in a pool, on the beach — anywhere else other than boarding a plane to New York City for another dull meeting. Even if the average temperature only reached a peak of 73 degrees Fahrenheit in the day, for many of the Northern Europeans, this weather was still much too hot. With no errant winds to cool them down, hot, thick asphalt soaked in every ray of sunshine and melted it back into their black suits and ties. Body heat, they knew, could be the difference between comfortable and intolerable.

So when they landed, the sun felt sweltering through their black slacks and white, stiff collars. The heat followed them like a warm breath, and while some basked in its gift, many others cursed at it and hoped that at least traveling to New York again would be worth it.

Yes, that July sixteenth was the most average day to have a meeting.

Or so they thought it would have been.

...

"I swear if I hear _My_ _Achey_ _Breaky_ _Heart_ one more bleeding time, this meeting will have one less nation on the roster," England griped with clenched teeth, getting out of the taxi with France. The taxi drove away to the oh so wonderful sound of morning, New York City traffic.

"You seem to be rather disturbed today. Or is that you're sexually disturbed as always?" France asked with amusement.

"What the —! Get your disgusting hands off of me and let me walk through this door already! Why do I even bother with your beastly presence," England complained, pushing the double doors open to the elegant U.N. headquarters.

He gave the blonde receptionist a small, awkward smile as they went through the same routine of standard safety procedures. It wasn't much, just flashing the woman some ID and confirming the appointment date was set to that date specifically.

She smiled at them and wished them luck for their meeting. She motioned them to proceed as she always did. The blonde nations walked down the long hallway, their polished, black shoes making click noises as their heels hit the tile floor. France sashayed his hair a bit. "You say you cannot stand me, but yet you still travel with me. Admit it, you cannot resist this."

England just gave him a look.

"No one else can put up with you for so long either. I'm the one who is being selfless! Like last week when we were —"

"Will you just shut your wretched mouth already!" England huffed, his ears tinted red with embarrassment. France laughed and opened the door for England to walk in. England muttered a thank you and saw that not many countries were there yet.

France sat down next to England, both of them still quarreling over small things. Why they were fighting about whose Tamagachi was better fed was a question no one really bothered to ask them.

"Yo dudes, you guys fighting again? You two can never get along, haha!" America said loudly strutting in through the doors with a horrible, neon pink cap on his head. It was placed on backward, the bill facing away from his forehead to protect him from the sun that wasn't even there.

Many of the nations blinked in surprise but with no real shock. He wasn't wearing nice dress shoes like the rest of them either. Oh no. He was wearing fluorescent white Nike sneakers that squeaked with every step he took and a ridiculously patterned collared shirt that looked like it belonged on a hotel carpet rather than on a body. His slacks were still black at least.

England was just glad the shoes had laces this time. He _was not_ going through the hell of America and velcro again.

His outfit was a horrendous mix of the current street fashion and the half-assed effort to look presentable to the world. England sighed heavily, wearily, and had to pinch his nose from exploding on the young man. The amount of stupid in America never really stopped amazing him, not even after two hundred years.

France looked like as if he had just been struck with a heart attack. He slumped in his chair, head cocking back and body loosening in shock and England had to smack him to see if he was still alive. France fell to the floor from the imbalance his turned face caused, his legs and arms crumbling in a way that only an unconscious man could withstand. England blinked slowly and uncaringly as his neighbor sprawled on the floor.

"Will you look at that. You killed France," he said poking him with his foot to make sure.

Everyone else just ignored America's odd sense of style and went back to bugging their fellow neighbors. America slid next to England, whom at the moment was debating on whether to perform CPR or to just let him stay there and wake up with a horrible crick in his neck. America set his things down on the table and loosened his black tie a bit. It was in that moment England remembered something and set to turn France over and revive him.

"Yo is Germany ditching out on another meeting? That guy's a real pain in the ass, but dealing with Italy's rambling is worse," America asked while looking down to see what England was doing.

"You bearded fuck, you still owe me money, you bleeding, no good — ! Oh?" England stopped pumping and looked around. "I don't know America. He wasn't here when we arrived. That wasn't much before you, I'm afraid." England then gave up on the Frenchman, letting him stay on the floor as he kneeled back up.

America huffed. "So not cool man. He's always telling us not to miss any of the meetings too! 'Tardiness is not acceptable.' 'Making it to the meetings is not an option, but mandatory.'," America mimicked in his horrible impersonation of Germany's voice.

"It is strange, though. Germany isn't one to miss out on a such an important event. You know how he is," England replied a tad bit worried that Germany was going to miss yet another meeting. It left an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he could tell that it did for America as well.

"Who knows! Maybe he suddenly snapped and went mofo, or I don't know. Got laid!" America said with a false laugh.

"Will you please stop talking like that. I highly doubt Germany just went and bonked someone...That's just not like him."

"Bonked? What the hell does that mean? See, I'm not the one talkin' funny. You're using _Iggy English_ again," America said while waving excitedly at Japan.

"It means to have a good shag."

"What?"

"A bang?"

"Like the hair? It's bangs, dude."

"It means to have sex!" England finally said to America frustrated.

"Did someone say sex?" France asked, his heart _conveniently_ pumping blood right after England had shouted.

"So, _now_ you wake up."

"Anything for you," France cooed sweetly, clutching his head and sitting up from the floor. He stumbled back into his seat next to England and avoided looking at America in fear that he would collapse again. He grabbed the glass of water in front of his name tag to drink and calm down.

"Oh! You should have just said that jeez. But yeah, it is weird. This is what, the fifth time? I know that Austria and Switzerland have already tried barging into his house, but he wasn't there either. Germany can't quit on us, man. He's important," America said eyeing the empty chair next to the fidgety Italy.

"Poor lad, he must really miss Germany," England remarked when he saw America's line of vision.

America turned to him. "Who? Italy?"

England nodded. "It's written all over his face. Can't you see? Though I will admit that something has been fishy around them for a while now. Odd considering how much they fancy each other."

America looked at Italy talking rapidly with his twin. Romano looked less than pleased as usual, but he seemed to listen to Italy's useless ramble with a little bit less hate than others. Even with all of Italy's wild wrist motions and joyful exclamations, he did not seem truly happy. His eyes, flickering to the wooden door hoping for something, anything, to emerge and placate the growing restlessness within his body that he could not display, held a hidden longing. America sensed that Italy was hiding how despondent he was for the sake of others, and America could only send him sympathy as he knew that feeling all too well.

"He looks happy. They aren't always together, ya know," America said, choosing to ignore the growing heaviness of the topic.

"He may look like he's full of beans, but take a closer look and you'll see how his eyes dart to his left and how his hands twitch after talking about pasta," England said leaning forward in his seat just a bit so his elbows rested on the table.

"Full of beans? You gotta cool your jets with that funny talk, bro," America snickered. America didn't think Italy was talking about lies, but then again, Italy did have a tendency to exaggerate things just a _tad._

"I keep forgetting you don't use that kind of language here. Sorry, I'll try to not make it so blatant."

America grew concerned. "You only get like that when you're worried about something. You're usually really good at hiding your weird Britishy terms. Something up?"

England sighed. "No, no, everything is just going splendidly. This bloody meeting mess has gotten my Parliament in a horrible disarray, they threw a tantrum when I left like little children. I swear I should sack all of them, those bumbling pillocks. They are now badgering me to find Germany, and how am I supposed to know where he is? I know less than they know, those little..."

America blinked and had to hold his mouth from laughing out loud. He couldn't hold it in and he burst. His loud laughter did not attract as much attention as one would think as America practically laughed at everything.

"Oh my god. Oh my god! Haha! That is the most British thing I have ever heard! What the hell did you even just say?" America said wiping a tear from under his glasses. England just groaned and did not flinch when he felt France caress his thigh from under the table as a means of comfort.

"That's not the point. My point is if we don't figure out what happened to Germany soon, my government, and everyone else's, will get extremely fussy and annoying, and I don't feel like dealing with them more than I have to," England said, trying to avoid the instinctive use of his country's slang.

"I know you're rubbing my leg France! Fucking Christ, do you have no shame?" He whacked France behind the head. He had turned his head to speak with Belgium, and he winced when he felt the smack against his crown.

"Hmm, true. Well, it looks like all the countries are almost here. We're just waiting for —?"

"Hungary. Aside from Germany, Hungary has yet to appear."

"Oh yeah. That's weird, though, she usually comes with Austria," America said doing another headcount.

"America, will you take off that hat already. It looks bloody ridiculous," England said eyeing the neon pink cap warily.

America gasped. "No way! Will Smith gave this to me, and I gotta look fresh! Hah! Get it? Fresh Prince of —"

"Yes, I get it."

"No need to be such a biotch. Even if this meeting is a buzz kill, I have to present with style. You wouldn't get it. Your sweater vest is probably being dry cleaned, pfft," America snickered.

"You think wearing a rug is fashionable. I'm not going to listen to _you_ about fashion."

America waved his hand dismissively at him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

England sighed and muttered. "Why do I even bother."

"'Cuz I know you totally have a crush on me, dude. It's okay, I would date me too, I mean I am all that and a bag of chips," America said cheekily.

England vehemently denied that. America kept bantering with England, neither of them noticing that Italy watched with sharp eyes from afar.

Italy could tell just by England's body language that England was enjoying his time with America immensely. England's eyes showed a plethora of emotions when talking to America, and he seemed to never stop paying attention to him. Even when he was annoyed, he seemed to have a fond, aggravated sigh, or when he was pensive, his eyes would furtively flicker to his to see what he opinionated.

England loved America. Italy wasn't sure to what extent America felt about England, but America wasn't pushing away those affections. If anything he was just letting himself be basked in it, taking for granted England's unwavering, sure attention. To America, England's attention was a given to him.

 _Such a spoiled country he is..._

Italy sighed as he placed his palm on his right cheek. Spain had clung onto Romano not too long ago and now they were doing their weird form of flirting far away from him. Yet another country that couldn't appreciate the persistent attention.

Italy looked to his left and saw Germany's seat once again empty. The first time this happened, he had full-blown panicked and cried. He cried and cried, but his tears did not bring Germany back, so he just sniffed and tried to think positively.

The second time, he couldn't ignore how his heart dropped and how his curl drooped sadly. Without Germany there, who would listen to him? Who would be there to sigh and tie his shoelaces that he purposely didn't knot up? Who was he supposed to hug and feel their body tense, only for them to relax with red cheeks?

He called, wrote, and did everything he could to contact Germany and think positively.

It had worked for a couple weeks, and he really thought that by the third meeting, he would be there to apologize in his overly formal and genteel way. Italy thought he would get to hear Germany mutter about "Italians and their damn pasta", but still join him for lunch when he took his larger, paler hand in his thinner, tanned one.

When he wasn't there for the third time, he really thought Germany had died, and it took the nations several hours to calm him down. Germany's bowl of pasta had gotten very cold...

By the fourth meeting, Italy had started to become a little less shocked at the idea of a frowning blond not by his side. His crisp suit and gelled hair were becoming a fading memory he could not swallow down. The others called him clingy and over-emotional, but if he didn't touch or hear Germany, he'll vanish forever right through his nimble fingers just like smoke.

He'll fade into his memory, blurred to a mere feeling with no face.

He didn't want that — oh no. He _knew_ that this had to be the meeting he had to come. No one was sick for that long, especially not Germany who was a workaholic and perfectionist. Germany would be too embarrassed and guilty to miss over fifty-five days of work.

Germany hasn't talked to Italy in one hundred and twenty-four days, five hours, and twenty seconds.

Not that he's counting or anything.

"I'M SO SORRY FOR BEING LATE, BUT I CAUGHT TWO HOT GUYS MAKING OUT AND I COULDN'T LOOK AWAY FROM IT BECAUSE THAT SHIT WAS HOT," Hungary shouted, her hair having twigs and leaves in it.

Everyone gaped at her and winced at her loud voice.

"That's nice, just sit down Hungary," Austria said uncomfortable, yet used to the notion of Hungary going on random hunting trips of "boy's love."

"Sorry, sorry," she apologized taking her seat next to Austria. She gasped.

"Where's Germany? Is he not here again?" She immediately looked over to Italy whose curl was drooped down to pathetic levels. His mouth was quivering, but his eyes were still shut like normal. She heard sad little _ve_ from him, and she wished she could go to him and hug him just like she had done long ago.

America stood up from his chair abruptly, England quickly swiping the cap away as he stood up. America had his right hand clenched into a fist and his left palm flat on the table sturdily, shaking the long slab of metal.

"Alright! Another world meeting has commenced! First of all, welcome to the _lovely_ Big Apple, New York City baby! It's the home of the hamburger! And the American mafia, but anyhow," America ignored Romano's heated glare at the word mafia, "hamburgers. That's German. And you know what's German and not in the great ol' US of A? Germany. The main dude. Anyone know where that guy went?"

This brought worried chatter to the table.

 _All we can do is talk, talk, talk, talk and never do anything. It's annoying me._

"Wasn't he just in Switzerland?" Mexico piped up.

Everyone looked at Switzerland.

"That was four months ago. I haven't heard from him either since then," Switzerland replied neutrally. Liechtenstein nodded to make this statement valid.

"Well, that's a clue at least. Four months ago, he went to Switzerland..." America said, question marks floating around his head.

"He came to me three months ago to talk about the Earth Summit," Brazil said shyly. She barely ever had her voice heard, and she was glad to have something to contribute to with the leading powers of North America and Europe.

America blinked. "Who are you? Are you even a country?"

France gasped and rushed to hold Brazil. Brazil fidgeted uncomfortably. "How dare you forget about the beautiful Brazil? She's the one with the oh so lovely bottom~"

"France, focus! This isn't the time for that," England barked with his eyebrows twitching. "Now, Brazil, what did you discuss with Germany, and did he tell you what he was going to do next?" England asked kinder to the dark woman.

Brazil peeled off France's hands and straightened in her seat. She spoke with a clearer voice. "No, he did not. He came to me to talk about the preparations for the Earth Summit."

Her voice held confusion now, "It is odd, though. He seemed so worried and meticulous about everything going smoothly. He was concerned if it was imposing on my resources a lot, or if things would be ready on time, and he was generally worried about small things that I can't remember now, but he wasn't even there when it happened. This was such a big event and he just left," she made a gesture with her hands, "just, poof. Gone."

Many agreed and wondered what could have made Germany just leave like that.

"Alright, so we know he went to Swiss cheese over here, then to Brazil, but where to next?" America said tapping his chin.

Switzerland seethed, and Liechtenstein had to remind him that machine guns weren't allowed in the meeting room.

Nobody else spoke up and so America tried, "You can't tell me that Germany didn't at least call one of you guys in these past three or four months."

"He did call me to ask something important," Austria stated after a pregnant pause.

America looked at him excitedly, his ridiculous shoes squeaking a bit from when he turned.

Austria nodded and said to the mirage of faces, "He called me to ask about something important, but hung up immediately after I had said yes. Quite rude, but disturbing. Something was troubling him deeply, it had seemed." Austria looked a little troubled as well and Hungary squeezed his hand in assurance. Austria's cheeks tinted a bit pink but wrapped his hand a little tighter around her thin fingers.

America made a humming noise and looked to England. "What do you think England?"

England bit his lip. "I don't know. All this behavior indicates that he was erratic about something. I have a feeling it wasn't about the Earth Summit either. Either someone in this room is choosing not to share, choosing to sacrifice valuable information for the well being of this organization, choosing to endanger a fellow nation, or, Germany was upset about something else. But since I know _no one_ in this room would do that, I can't really say," England stated coolly.

Some fidgeted in their plastic chairs not liking the glint in England's green, piercing eyes.

America completely ignored the threat and focused on the data he had just been told. Snapping his fingers, he pointed over to Italy. "Italy! You're always around Germany so you must know where he is!" England smacked his palm against his forehead.

"If I knew I would tell you. I haven't seen Germany either lately...It's been very lonely without Germany...He hates me! He hates me! I just know it!" Italy tumbled out, quick to sob into his palms. These weren't comical tears, tears that would leak out of his eyes from small things, but fat, thick droplets of water running down his reddening cheeks.

Romano immediately took defense. "Woah, woah. Look here you damn highlighter head bastard, you know how much of a little bitch Veneziano is, so can you not make him cry? He already cries enough without you reminding him that the mayo on a stick is gone! And Veneziano stop with the waterworks already!" Romano said hugging his younger brother by the side. Italy clung to the side of Romano's nice, crisp suit and sniffed pitifully.

"Well, it seems the Mario brothers don't know shi —"

"I told you to stop fucking calling us that, you damn clogged artery!"

"I will once you stop calling me type two diabetes with legs."

"No way, you fucking chee —"

"This is getting us nowhere! Stop arguing and shut up!" Mexico said glaring at America with burning intensity.

"Romano, stop being a little bitch and suck it up. Do I have to sing you a lullaby to calm you down like when we were living under that _puta?_ And America, you're getting us nowhere, and you're the host of this meeting," Mexico sniped.

Romano shook fearfully with his brother clinging to him just as scared. He nodded quickly, while America just stuck out his tongue childishly at his southern neighbor.

Italy let go from Romano and straightened up, saying he was okay now and that he was fine.

"The last time I saw Germany was four months ago too. He was very stressed, so I made him some good pasta! It was delicious, but he didn't eat it. He said he wasn't in the mood. He always eats my pasta." Italy paused. The whole room was silent as they heard Italy's voice try to steady.

"He kept on looking out the window. It was like he was looking for something, or remembering something bad. I don't like it when he remembers because it always leads back to..."

The heavy stillness didn't sit well with Italy. He continued to talk to fill in the eerily attentive countries.

"He sighed a lot and spent a lot of time in his library. He didn't like to be in the same room with me for very long either. It was like whatever I said — whatever I said, upset him. I up-upset him a lot it seems. But when don't I annoy him, right?" he asked the muted room with a watery smile.

"Germany and I went to walk his dogs. We stumbled upon an old training field, and Germany looked sick, so I asked him if he needed to go to a clinic, but he harshly said no. I didn't know what I did wrong, I-I was just trying to help, but it seemed to make Germany more distant. We — We didn't talk for the rest of the way back. He fed his dogs and said he was going to bed early. He said that he had important things to do the next day, so I let him sleep. He had looked at me in the eye and said to not to go to bed with him. It was scary!" Italy said, his curl spazzing out a bit.

Italy swallowed, his parched throat needing water. He looked at his empty glass of water by his doodled name tag with regret.

"I guess, I guess it's been like this for a while. I don't know why, but one day Germany stopped being so nice to me. He's still nice! Just not as nice as before. I don't know how to explain it, but he felt — feels more distant. I don't know what I did on that —"

"Hold on a second, when was this 'one day'?" France asked seriously.

Italy looked deep in thought. "Maybe...maybe the general assembly in 1990? The one two years ago? Or was it three?"

"Woah, for two years? How did you not notice that he was, like —" Poland was cut off by Italy's eerily blank voice.

"No. No, it wasn't two years ago. It's been like this since 1945."

"That would have been forty-five years ago," Japan said, trying breaking the tense atmosphere.

Italy looked down. "I know."

"Okay, so Germany hasn't been total homo for you in forty-five years. That is bad news, shit," America said now furrowing his brows in worry.

"Homo? Homo as in homosexual?" Italy asked with his eyes wide open. America felt his nerves jump at how deep amber Italy's eyes were, and how aged they looked. They just seemed to have seen so many things. It was intimidating, those clear, sharp eyes on you.

"Yeah, you know gay?" America said trying to see what the big deal was, wondering if he had offended Italy somehow.

"Homosexual. Gay, gay, gay. No. I'm going crazy," Italy said, his eyes drooping down shut again, his face once again forming into the natural goofy expression.

"As much fun as it is to talk about how obvious that Germany is into kinky shit and likes cock, can we actually move onto where the cock sucker is? No one has really said anything useful, and my ass has been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for thirty minutes too long," Romano griped, the one to voice everyone else's thoughts.

"You won't find him."

Everyone turned around to the sharp voice.

"Prussia? What are you doing here?" Hungary was the first to speak from the shock of seeing Prussia so melancholic.

Prussia didn't answer. He walked toward the table and placed an old leather-bound book. The brown binding was chipped and frayed, the spine disconnecting with the yellow pages a bit, leaving a noticeable gap. The cover was bending upwards jaggedly as if someone had been holding onto it for dear life. There were many pieces of dried crusts of blood scattered on the cover and binding. There seemed to be a stain, a stain that the owner clearly had tried to get rid of in useless effort, of a thick blood trail. It wasn't just blots or stains of red like the other dried drops, but a vivid gushing trail of brown from three-quarters of the cover, to the uneven pages on the side, dipping down again to the back cover.

It was in horrible condition, yet the title had a clear engraving of _Tagebuch._ Whoever owned this journal made sure the cursive letters were still legible.

"Whose is that?" America asked, not liking the look of the antique book. It gave him eerie vibes, and he couldn't help but think that the book will cause more questions than answers.

Prussia looked at all of them, one by one — to Spain's faked cluelessness, to Russia's curiosity, to Hungary's pleading eyes, to France's guilty gaze, and to Italy's shaking body. He stuck his hands in his pants and spoke to them with a rasp in his voice. "It's Germany's. That kid — he kept a journal. It's the only real journal he's ever had."

"What are we supposed to do with this? This seems rather personal," England said suspiciously and uncomfortable at the prospect of reading directly into Germany's thoughts.

Prussia tried to laugh but it didn't come out right. "You're going to read it and bring my little brother back, you little shits."

He looked back up and stared directly into Italy's eyes.

"Because I _know_ you guys will."

Prussia tried walking out of the room, but Hungary caught his attention.

"Wait," she called almost scooting back from her seat to face him directly, "why are you giving us this?"

Prussia turned his head back annoyed. "You're already complaining? It's only been five damn seconds."

Austria was highly doubtful as well. "You would never be inclined to simply place a highly valuable piece of evidence in front of all the countries in the world. You rarely act civil around me, how are we supposed to believe you have a gained a sudden change in heart?"

"So you're telling me that you don't actually care about finding Germany," he stated unamused.

Austria became flustered. "That isn't what I was saying at all, but you know a well as I do that this highly unordinary."

"But what is ordinary is you sitting back and doing nothing," he accused with lowered, harsh eyes. "And since none of you will actually do anything unless someone hands you something, forces you do to do something, this is what I'm doing. So there you go. Maybe now you'll actually start to give a shit."

Prussia left and no one tried to stop him as he slammed the door closed.

There was a slightly awkward air now, and Austria pushed up his glassed undignified but not necessarily hurt.

The nations just stared at the book as if it were an illegal alien. (Well at least America was looking at it like that). The book just sat at the table, the pungent scent of smoke surrounding the book like a bad perfume. The book was doing nothing, it was saying nothing, yet the nations stared at it, to each other, back to the book, to each other, and back to the book in a complete lack of knowledge of what to do. It was as if they expected the inanimate object to disappear just as quickly, just as spontaneously, as it had appeared.

The room was filled with heavy silence, this time, a confused and turbulent silence. No one knew how to proceed. They didn't understand why Prussia seemed so calm and sad, or why Prussia had entrusted this private piece of property to the world. It was nerve-wracking — the answers, the possibilities, in those musty pages. How much history did this one book have?

"I think it's only fair that Italy has this," France finally said after getting tired of the fidgets and quick eye movement. It was just a book and they would find Germany with it, so he didn't understand why everyone was being so hesitant and nervous to open it. Even America looked apprehensive about the small antique journal. He felt a dark sense of foreboding as soon as he looked around once more. He couldn't shake off this strange feeling...

"M-Me? I can't take this!" Italy quickly denied, waving his white flag around.

"You're the only one who really deserves it, lad. It pains me to say this, but France is right. It's only fair," He pushed his chair back, the wood making a horrible scraping noise against the cold floor as it moved. The noise echoed harshly throughout the room. He went around the edge of the table, where the table faced the entrance and picked up the book daintily. The book felt heavy, and he felt a shiver go down his spine when he saw the foreign spelling.

 _This could be possibly the words of a dead man._

Britain walked over to Italy and placed the book directly in his trembling hands. Italy's eyes were once again open. He was staring directly at England with a look of terrible fear, his eyes reflecting the same sadness in the others green ones.

"It's time to read the first entry, no?"

...

 **Full of beans — _British slang meaning hyper, bursting with energy_**

 **Sack — _British slang to fire someone from work_**

 **Pillocks — _British slang for_ _a person who is an idiot or has done something stupid_**

 **All That and a Bag of Chips — _"I'm the best and then some."_**

 **Puta — _Spanish for slut_**

 ** _..._**

 **I'm aware that probably no real English person speaks like that, but as stated before, when England gets really stressed out, I feel like he would pull out all this weird slang that he has at his home. This is the only chapter that he really goes off like that, so do not worry English readers, you won't have to read that cringy attempt again.**

 **ALSO: I will put this in the next chapter once we start to get reading the journal, but none of the entries will be in German. I'm not German, I don't speak any German and probably never will. If somehow Google Translate failed me with the simplest of tasks like translating _journal_ , then please just drop kick me in the head.**

 **That is all. Thanks for reading and see you in the next chapter!**


	2. Childish Innocence

Chapter Two — Childish Innocence

...

 **I will start to use human names. A guide:**

 **England — Arthur**

 **America — Alfred**

 **N. Italy/Veneziano — Feliciano**

 **Romano — Lovino**

 **Germany — Ludwig**

 **Prussia — Gilbert**

IMPORTANT: **"Hetalia"** — German being translated to the Universal language

...

Italy looked down at the book once again. He was trying to ignore how the bound journal was feeling progressively heavier and how the room was getting quieter — if that was even possible. Is there a sound quieter than silence?

Italy looked back to England because England always had the answers, was always right, always understood.

But England did not understand. Italy looked down to the book. Then back to England. Back to the book, then back to England, as if his pleading eyes could speak silent morse code.

England sighed, an aggravated sigh that really shouldn't have made him feel so cowardly.

But it did. And Italy had to remind himself that it was just a book. Just a book that held words. And feelings. And secrets...and fears, and confessions, and joy, and tears, and blood, and —

Italy opened the journal.

The world just watched on curiously, their array of mixed skin tones blending into one big blob as his eyes swept over each and every one of them.

England nodded approvingly, assuring Italy that what he was doing was, in fact, the right thing to do. Italy gulped again and had to fight off the urge to throw the smooth journal away from him — throw the journal somewhere _far, far, away_ , to a place that could not hurt him, and continue to hope and sigh that Germany would come back to him. Because that was what he always did.

Italy watched England retreat back to his seat by America and felt a swell of loneliness and pride. It seemed England was confident enough in him to not start breaking down again and panic out of the room. It seemed England was faithful that he would continue this and not back out. It was nice, or was it cruel? He didn't know anymore, but after so many years of pessimism and only having dreary doubts inside his head, choosing to believe the most positive outcome was the only thing he could do. And if England believed he can do it, so did Italy.

Yeah! Yeah, Italy can do it. Italy will _not_ cry, will _not_ scream, will _not_ push his chair and fling himself to the safety of the crowded New York City street. Oh no, no. Of course, not! Y-Yeah...of course not...

Romano moved closer to Italy. "You don't have to do this, you know. Someone else can do this, deal with this mess —"

A shaky breath out.

"No. No..I can do this. I-I can do this," a pause, "I have to."

Romano nodded unsurely but didn't move to stop Italy from looking down at the page for the first time.

"What's wrong? Why aren't you reading?" America asked seeing the Italian's eyes sweep across the page but not utter a word.

Italy's head snapped up, the same motion a frightened bunny would mimic in danger of its safety.

"I just realized that I'm not that good in reading German. I have to translate it to Italian, then translate it to you guys, which makes my brain all confused and jumbly," Italy said with his eyes downcast.

He felt as if he was giving another excuse. Another subconscious excuse to not continue and pass on the deed to someone else with his clammy hands. Just to give it to someone else — someone else who would understand German, would keep their cool, would know how to be emotionally stable, would know when to stop, when to stop —

"Austria! You should read this!" Italy said quickly getting from his seat and fast walking (running) to Austria to hand (shove) the book into his chest with a swift motion.

Austria sat dumbfounded for a moment, his hands clutching onto the book loosely with surprise.

"Now wait just a moment, I will not —" Austria stopped when he saw Italy's face. Italy seemed to be slightly trembling. His shiny, undoubtedly, expensive shoes made quick rustle movements as he shifted back in forth. His gaze didn't meet Italy's as his head was bowed down at such an angle, that it concealed his watering eyes.

 _What are you so afraid of? Why are you still the same as back then?_

But Italy was no child anymore. He had too much blood underneath his uneven nails, too many sins in his bible filled with bills, and had seen too many horrors of what they called human nature to be considered a child.

"I cannot. This is something you must do for yourself," Austria said firmly, pushing the book back to Italy. Italy accepted it, but his head violently shook no.

"If Italy doesn't want to read it, then he shouldn't have to be forced to —" Hungary was cut off by a patient Austria.

"If he can't do it, then none of us can. Who else has the right to read that? Not certainly me, or you, or anyone else in this room. It's not a matter of what he's reading, it's the fact that it's him reading. Do you understand?"

Hungary bit her lip and sent Italy another gaze of pity. She didn't like seeing those close to her hurt...

"This is great and all, but will someone read already?" Switzerland cut in, effectively ruining the thick atmosphere. His voice was naturally gruff and his thick accent made Italy scurry back to his seat.

Italy chuckled despite everything. He wiped a tear and felt his face morph into a more serious one, his cheekbones relaxing much too quickly to be natural.

Everything felt unnatural, surreal, out of the ordinary, out of this world, but with this weight in Italy's hand, he felt as if he could finally enter Germany's world. His world of dull colors made out of millions of different hues — all very similar but never the same — frigid lines made out of squiggles, thick and imposing, yet soft around the edges.

 _Looking back, that moment had to be the easiest. If I had known what was inside, the words I was forced to speak out, the journey I had to go through because of your staccato sentences, I would have ripped the book at first sight. Ripped the book until no pages could be glued together, the pages twisting and ripping into ugly shapes and cuts. I would have destroyed that book, just as that book destroyed you._

Deep down, he wanted this more than anything. He wanted to know _all_ of Germany. He didn't want the small text that's written in a textbook, or the vague hand motions of "when I younger," or "a long time ago," or, "don't worry about it." He wanted to be greedy, selfish, and possessive.

And with that thought, the yellow pages weren't as daunting as before. The rest didn't matter, the world didn't matter, because right then and there, on that warm July morning, Italy was trying to play with fire and could not be more curious to release the match.

...

 _ **"Germany's Journal. If found, return to Big Brother Prussia. Ludwig Beilchsmidt,"**_ Italy said, his voice not holding the same tone as before.

The words were scribbled in childish sloppiness, but even back then Germany had seemed to be as serious and succinct as possible. Big Brother Prussia was marked out furiously and the name Ludwig was added in at a much later date (if the neat and symmetrical lines were anything to go by). This was only the first page, so Italy flipped.

 **" _07\. August_** _ **1821."**_ Italy wasn't so sure why all the other nations looked so surprised. Maybe they were shocked at how young Germany really was?

Wait...This date.

This is only fifteen years after The Holy Roman Empire dissolved.

Italy kept reading to distract himself.

 _ **"Big Brother has given me this useless thing with lines and words. I don't know what to do with this. I asked Big Brother and he said I was supposed to write in it. I told him I didn't know how, but that idiot just laughed at me. What a jerk! I don't think I'm doing this right."**_

Italy was having a hard time translating the poorly written German into the Universal language all nations shared quickly and swiftly enough for the sentence to not sound awkward and jerky. He was used to speaking rapidly, streams of thought flowing through his tongue faster than his head, and so having to slow down and think was just uncomfortable. He felt judged and unworthy, but he had to remind himself they chose him of all people to do this.

Some of the nations giggled already liking young Germany. He did sound oddly cute all things considered. He could imagine a little Germany glaring at the pages under a lit candle as if the book were to blame for his lack of literacy.

 _ **"I guess I'm going to tell you things? I don't know what to write or what the rules are for this, but I'll try my best. Big Brother says I should stop having a 'stick up my ass', but I sit down just fine in chairs. Gilbert is the one who's been having trouble sitting down in chairs lately. He's been limping and hissing at how sore his bottom is. I hope Big Brother is okay!"**_

Almost everyone laughed. The feeling of worry was forgotten for a moment as they heard little, innocent Germany describe much too adult things for him to understand.

Austria flushed heavily as Hungary elbowed him suggestively.

Italy cleared his throat to continue, a smile on his face as well, shushing the nations into anticipation.

 _ **"Big Brother has been so kind to me. Am I allowed to say that? Forgive me. I know how angry he gets when I get all 'feely'. I still can't believe he's my big brother. Mine! Nobody else's. How many can say that they have The Kingdom of Prussia as their big brother? None! That makes me happy. I don't want him to get hurt. Even if he if he is an idiot."**_

Germany must sure love Prussia. It was endearing. This Germany was just as blunt as the current Germany, but this Germany was blunt with his feelings not with his words, Italy quickly mused before getting back to reading.

 _ **"Big Brother is a bit of a jerk and has an ego the size of a really big tree, but he's my Big Brother. I love him despite that. Is that the appropriate term? Before, I was surrounded by dead bodies. It was awful and my eyes were constantly getting teary, even when I wasn't sad. Wherever I went, there were dead people. My clothes smelled. I had no one and everyone hated me. They spat at me, and I felt like I didn't belong anywhere. The foxes were nice when they weren't trying to bite me. They would listen. I felt better. I always did cry alone in the forest.**_

 _ **I didn't know back then that my clothes smelled of pee and the chunky, yellow goop on my torn clothes was vomit. My hair was a greasy mess, and my feet felt awful. My belly was always grumbling and my eyes would always try to shut on their own. But I survived. I went to church (I didn't really know what it was, I just saw lots of food and smiling people around a nice man in white), and I tried my best to not die in the winters.**_

 _ **It hasn't even been a year since Big Brother has adopted me. (That's what he says it is. I consider it kidnapping but he waves it off as semantics.)**_

 _ **I still remember last year. My hands had turned into this weird, blue color, and my legs had felt like I was walking on pine needles! It was so horrible, but I couldn't shake the feeling away. The river water didn't help, and the forest couldn't speak back to me.**_

 _ **I wonder if Brother knows how it feels like to be alone. I still don't believe it. He's been so nice and caring. He's never let my fingers turn that weird shade of purple or my skin get itchy. He throws me in the air as if I were some toy, but I suppose I don't hate it. My laugh always ruins the silent treatment!"**_

Italy had to stop to get some saliva back in his mouth. Romano handed him his glass of water and he accepted it gratefully. The water — so cool and quick it was — went down his throat in no time. He sat the glass back down on the table and saw that the countries were thinking about the words just read.

So far, nothing had been useful. The only thing Italy got away from this was that Germany was an adorable young nation who adored his brother very much. Though he did learn something Germany would have never told him. Germany wasn't found by Prussia immediately after birth. He had suffered and wandered alone on the earth, wondering, questioning, testing, smiling, and crying at the complex toy that was the world.

He had been born from death.

That thought sent a chilling shiver down his spine. He couldn't picture it. The Germany he knew — the oh so calm and collected Germany everyone knew — was nothing like the scared boy on the second, wrinkled page. The thought of Germany crying over a bird, realizing that the bird had died and would no longer flap its wings, made Italy sad.

How had Ludwig looked at the world back then? How tall were things? How much bigger did life seem? Did he cry when he got a cut or did he rub the tears away and let his lip quiver?

Meanwhile, Russia sympathized with Germany. He as well had been born into a tundra, and it took many years before he could see real life flesh on his fat finger instead of black stubs. Those times were dark, but the world had been much simpler.

Just how far up north had Germany gone to get frostbite? Italy kept on reading after a couple drinks of the water Romano had given him.

 _ **"I don't like to think of those times. The fourteen years I spent alone in the dark woods and ignoring the dark stares of the villagers. (Big Brother says they are my people. I think Big Brother is dumb. I don't have any serfs). Those people felt cold to me, and I'm glad I have a place to call home. This mansion is much better than my house built of rock and twigs that's for sure!"**_

Italy blinked stupidly after reading that. Was that where Germany got his infatuation with sticks?

 _ **"Living with Big Brother has been fun. I hope he doesn't read this. I would be so embarrassed!**_

 _ **But living with him has been fun. I baked an apple pie with him, and he didn't comment about how cooking was a woman's job. The servants helped, and I thanked them. (I have manners, unlike Big Brother. He just gets really awkward around them and mutters his gratitude with strangely flushed cheeks.) He told me the apple pie was very good. I was happy.**_

 _ **Is that what you call that happy? I felt my mouth being possessed with a large smile. It was much bigger and wider than any cute forest animal could have made me. I cried thinking it was the Devil. He laughed and told me that I was 'happy.' It's all so strange, but Big Brother knows a lot. He's very smart (and old)."**_

"Did Germany really not know what happiness was for that long?" France murmured in disbelief. It was one thing to not be happy, but it was another to not even know the feeling. It was as if the word just wasn't part of Germany's very limited vernacular.

Fourteen years is like a quick blink to a nation. You know it happened, you know you just did it, but everything turns black for a second, and you forget what you just saw because of the blurriness and unimportance. You blink again. And again. And again, and again, and again, until eventually centuries have passed and you slowly try to remember what you saw through that millisecond of darkness.

It was nothing really, many other nations had it much worse, had lived in sadness for many years...but something about Germany's complete ignorance of happiness hurt him. For there to be happiness, there must be sadness, and many stay in the sadness as they know too little happiness.

But they knew happiness. What it felt like, what it was. To not even know...to be confused, to be shocked and appalled at the notion of joy — it made France's fear of foreboding much stronger. Already as a child, Germany was writing a sob story.

And Germany hadn't even known it then. It was normal.

"It seems so. But Germany was very young. It's normal," China said for the first time since the beginning of the meeting. Has it really already been an hour?

"I suppose," he murmured unsurely.

"Hey, we can talk about this after. I want to listen to Italy, so shhh!" America said annoyed.

They nodded, but could not wipe off the looks of pensiveness or downcast.

 _ **"I really hate my shortness. I couldn't get any of the things on the tabletops, so Big Brother had to lift me up every time. He helped me get down and up, and I couldn't help but realize how fat my legs and arms looked compared to him. I didn't look tall. I don't have a lot of muscles, I just looked...**_

 _ **Big Brother didn't know why I was pouting when he put me on his shoulders. It felt nice being on his shoulders. But I didn't like feeling so useless. I'm barely to his knees! His hand likes to go and mess up my hair a lot, and I don't really know why I let him do it so much. Maybe I like seeing Brother smile. I don't know, but I don't care, because somehow I smile too. Damn him."**_

"For a potato fungus, he sure does like to write a lot. What is he? Fucking five? How can he write so damn much?" Romano just had to interject.

Italy looked down at the text. It was messy and the letters took up quite a lot of space, but even he was surprised at how much Germany had to say. How many words did Ludwig refrain from speaking on a daily basis?

"Lovi, stop interrupting," Spain said, trying to get rid of America's glare toward Romano.

"Fine," Romano relented not liking the look America was giving him either.

The page made a crinkling noise as Italy flipped gently.

 _ **"So I decided I'm going to grow up big and strong. I'm going to grow up to be tall so that Big Brother doesn't have to pat my head and get the bowl from above me. I'll be strong, just like how Brother always tells me and become the best!**_

 _ **But for now, I'm stuck being short and called cute. For a 'manly man', Big Brother sure likes to dote on me. When we go hunting (I did not cry when he killed a deer, okay?) and (if I'm lucky), he will let me wear his hat. I'm strong! I get that weird possession to smile again when he pinches my cheeks and laughs at how the hat tips and my vision becomes one-sided. It's not funny. I can't see correctly. He finds it 'adorable.' I never said Big Brother was normal.**_

 _ **Brother is a jerk. Brother is strong. Brother is stubborn. Brother is cruel. Brother is kind. Brother is...**_

 _ **Brother is the best thing to happen to me so far. I don't think I can ever repay him."**_

Italy stopped reading. Throughout the reading, his eyes would drift off to the messy ink blots and smudges of words around the edges. Italy smiled softly at the thought of Germany's chubby hands spilling ink and trying to clean up the mess immediately after like the clean freak he is.

That reminded him of the times when he would make pasta at Germany's house. Germany would immediately wipe the counter as he skipped through the kitchen, and Germany's eyebrows would furrow at the sight of a fallen basil leaf on the ground and unchecked steam coming from the stove.

How Germany...back then...when Germany was...at that time...just how they used to...like how Germany did...

The words were never written on the front and back side of a page as the ink bled too much.

Was Germany left-handed?

Everything in these first three pages screamed _innocence!_ It was so child-like that he felt reminiscent of the days when he would rely on Grandpa Rome to get simple things like a glass from the many holes in the kitchen. That was back when the world was much bigger, much brighter.

"That's the end," Italy announced confused if he should continue with the next entry.

"Well, that was a load of shit."

"Romano, please," Spain said exasperatedly.

"What is the point in all of this? Why should all of us care about Germany's shitty childhood? Boo, hoo, he was lonely. So were all of us. This is a waste of goddamn time," Romano fumed.

In reality, he didn't care about the meeting. He had only come to not make his brother feel so alone, and since he was the oh so caring older brother, he _had_ to come so Feliciano wouldn't cry and be embarrassing.

He came to discuss trivial ideas of foreign policies, trading, and security. He didn't particularly care for any of those things, but he did not come to be read some try-hard sob story. So what if Germany had been alone for fourteen years and didn't know what happiness was? Nobody in the damn room knew, so he didn't know why everyone was going soft and looking at the brown book in forlorn as if their feelings could transcend all laws of science to current Germany.

Idiots. All of them.

"I suppose you would rather us continue the meeting as intended? Discuss the needs of the poor in Sri Lanka as planned? Do you have something to say to Bosnia? I'm sure he would be all ears about relief and aid," England replied casually. He was staring directly into Romano's changing eyes, the bright lights in the room making his emerald eyes stand out even more.

Romano's heart began to beat fast. He had a healthy amount of fear for England. That was something he believed would never go away, no matter how many guns and bombs he attained because something about the Englishman just... _was not right._ And Romano just had to stick his foot in the mouth.

Romano trembled. He would have ducked to hide behind Feliciano, but Feliciano was too busy sitting and staring at the both of them with that dumb expression of his. He instead grabbed onto Spain's hand and tried to calm down. It would do him no good to start crying over something so trivial.

"No! Damn it, that's not what I meant and y-you know it." Curse his stuttering.

A sigh. "Of course, of course."

America sent England a strange look with an eyebrow raised.

England wasn't one to back down from an argument, especially a verbal argument that he knew he could win. America had to give England credit where he deserved. England may be a crybaby, a hopeless drunk, a fake gentleman, and have a big brother complex the size of Africa, but England was cunning. Even as a child, he had always been amazed at England's double meanings and persuasion. Where physical intimidation lacked, he made up with his language of running in circles.

America never seemed to have mastered it.

England didn't bother to turn his head towards America, but he sent a quick eye glance to tell him he was fine.

"Should I read the next entry?" Italy asked his thumb already on the next crisp page.

The nations murmured. Then they talked. Then they started shouting.

"This is obviously some kind of joke!"

"Why would Prussia joke about this? You heard him, he's trying to find Germany like the rest of us!"

"Like the rest of us, right. If this wasn't some kind of scheme then why did he just plop the book to a random nation, then?"

"So now you're calling Italy a random nation? Just because your economy is doing a tiny bit better doesn't mean you can start talking shit — !"

"That's not the point! Stop yelling and being immature!"

"Easy for _you_ to say China. You're yelling just as loud as we are!"

"Why are they fighting, big brother?"

"Because they all have daddy issues."

"Oh."

"Okay, but, why are we wasting meeting time to read a diary? This can be talked about later. There are very important things that have to be —"

"Like WHAT. WHAT IMPORTANT THINGS?"

"This is so much fun! No one can tell that there's a bleeding America on the ground!"

"WHAT! AMERICA ARE YOU —"

"How can you be asleep at a time like this?!"

"FOCUS. What's important is that Germany called Prussia Big Brother. I knew he could be cute if he wanted to!"

"Maybe we should just leave —"

"Yes, maybe we should just leave while they are high—"

"This is stupi —"

"WOAH. YOU'RE NOT LEAVING!" America yelled, panicked at the sight of almost half the conference room getting up and leaving.

The third-world countries blinked in shock. What use were they in a European problem? They never cared about them before.

America sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He felt his cap gone, but didn't seem to care all that much. "Okay, this meeting is turning into a mess. Without Germany here to do his screamy, yelly thing, we can't seem to even agree on one thing." He snapped his fingers. "Alright! Swiss cheese do your thing!"

Switzerland bristled. "I said to stop calling me that!" He crossed his arms and scowled deeply, the frown lines marring his face. "I want nothing to do with this. I am declaring neutrality."

Liechtenstein smiled in admiration.

"Look at this shit. Can't even remember our names. Why should we listen to you?"

"Cuba is right, you are getting really annoying and —"

Liechtenstein grabbed a gun from underneath her long dress and shot at the ceiling three times in perfect composure. The smoke enveloped the small girl as she lowered the small gun to her lap once again.

The countries stopped strangling each other and used their mouths to gape instead of scream.

"Thanks," America said shocked. He winced when he looked up at the high ceiling and saw two busted light bulbs. His boss will _so_ not be happy with this.

She smiled sweetly, folding her hands over her lap and tilting her head in the picture of innocence. "No problem, Mr. America." When did her accent sound so frightening?

The nations shuffled back to their seats in a newfound respect for the petite girl.

"Well, that was appreciated. Okay!" America said already standing up and walking towards to the front of the room so he could be the center of attention. He pointed to Italy again. Italy backed away a bit despite America being so far away now.

"Italy just read an entry of Germany's diary. We now know, A," he held out one finger in a gesture to counting, "that this is legit. This is not fake or a joke."

"How do we know that?" Russia asked curiously.

America took a second to answer. "Well, it's in German. That's one thing. It also mentions Prussia so —"

"No. It just said Big Brother. We are assuming that 'Big Brother' is Prussia," Belarus spoke, her voice factual.

"Italy, check if it says Prussia."

The book jumped a bit as Italy fumbled with it quickly.

"It does. Right here," he pointed excitedly at the first page, "it says 'return to Big Brother Prussia! But it's been crossed out."

America nodded with a fist bump. "Nice job Garlic Bread. This is proof that this is legit and needs to be taken seriously."

"That still doesn't explain why Prussia just handed this to us. This is personal and Prussia isn't the type to just hand this stuff away," Spain said with a hand on Romano's collar to stop him from lunging at America for the insult.

"Maybe he couldn't figure it out on his own?" Hungary questioned just as confused. "But that doesn't make sense either. I know he said he wanted us to help him but he's not even here."

France nodded in agreement. "It's obvious that Prussia has already read these entries and could not find the answer. Why he assumes we will know more than him is still a mystery."

Denmark leaned on his cheek, his palm sure to leave a red mark later. "This sounds fishy. I know Germany and he wouldn't just up and disappear. I think he would go bat-shit insane if he did — a damn work-a-holic. Gets it from his brother who also doesn't like to burden others," Denmark lazily glanced at Italy's frown, "no, no, doesn't like to burden others at all."

America tapped his chin thinking. Nothing was adding up. It was almost like an exhilarating mystery novel, where none of the clues matched until the brilliant detective figured it out and the story is over.

But no one in the room was a brilliant detective.

America let out a huff of frustration. He was the hero! This should be easy!

"Maybe he's already figured it out but wants us to put the clues together. More specifically Italy," a soft voice spoke out.

"Did comrade Canada speak?" Russia asked looking at the highly ignored Canadian.

"You know who I am?" The violet eyes sparkled with excitement and awe. His body shook excitedly in the cushioned, plastic seat.

Russia nodded. "Comrade should speak louder so dumb nations hear?"

England blinked in shock. "Canadia, when —"

"Canada."

"— did you get here?"

"That doesn't matter, what matters is that my bro has something to say and you guys keep interrupting him," America gestured annoyed.

England grumbled a bit under his breath because he knew for a fact that America had jumped slightly when he had heard Canada's mellow voice.

Canada cleared his throat a bit and clutched onto Kumajirou tighter, but not enough to hurt the bear. "I said that maybe Gilb — I mean Prussia, intended this to be read by the world. Actually, more to Italy."

Canada ignored the questioning gazes of _who's that, where is he from, is he a micronation, is he part of the U.N.?_

"Why wouldn't Prussia just hand it to me? Why would he go through the trouble of disturbing the meeting to give me this journal?" Italy asked confused.

"I don't know."

The question was never answered.

...

 _Even to this day, I don't know why you did it, Ludwig. Even after I had read all of those entries, I still don't think I can understand. And that is something I truly regret._

 _..._

 **mm. dd yyyy** — _**Official**_ _ **way to write a date in Germany.**_

 **Something To Say to Bosnia — _In reference to Bosnia declaring independence from Yugoslavia the April of that year (1992). If you know anything about Yugoslavia during the 90s, you would know that the Serbs and Croats living in Bosnia were slaughtering the native Bosnians in an attempt to achieve a successful ethnic cleansing. It was a brutal genocide and Europe kind of just let it happen...It was a highly debated topic within the EU about who allowed it to happen and who was to blame for not stopping it sooner._**

 ***Historical Note — Smol Ludwig at this point wouldn't be called Germany but instead the German Confederation. Since his official name changes so much during the 19th century, I just chose the standard name Germany as it easier to understand.**

 **...**

 **There wasn't as much diary reading as I imagined but I liked how this chapter turned out.**

 **I don't have much else to say other than thanks for reading!**

 *** Some of the characters might seem way too OOC, BUT, I'm trying to portray them more as humans than the funny gags in Hetalia. This won't exactly be a humorous fic, but I'm not going to throw away their personalities altogether. ***


	3. Limerence

Chapter Three — Limerence

...

"What should we do now?" France asked after a much-needed lunch break. With food in the nations' bellies and coffee in their blood, they felt more ready to attack the problem at hand. In reality, they were just as prepared as they had been an hour and a half ago.

America sighed exaggeratedly and sunk himself deeper into the cushioned chair, his bomber jacket making loud noises as it met the plastic.

"I don't know. Which isn't rad because I'm the hero, and I always know what to do!" America pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Get a grip! You know how stupid America is," England said while patting France's quivering back roughly. France was sobbing fake tears into his palms. Belgium overheard the debacle and shot him a look of pity from across the table

America sighed and said, "Listen to him, the tea pervert knows what — hey! I'm not stupid!"

"You're right, you're simply oozing intelligence right now," England said rolling his eyes while giving France a tissue. France kissed his hand in thanks, and England immediately wiped both of his hands on his black slacks a little too furiously and quickly than necessary. It was as if simply being touched him was the equivalent of re-living the bubonic plague.

"Haha! You and your sarcastic ways! Gotta love it. Wouldn't be a meeting without you and your bitchy ways!"

England glared at America. "What is it you are trying to imply?"

America blinked. "You don't understand your own language or — "

"I would love to know how this ends, spoiler alert — it's angry, kinky sex — but we have a meeting to run, so can we get back on topic please?" Mexico once again cut in. America gave an irritated huff out for being interrupted but cleared his throat anyway.

"Alright! Listen, my dudes, this is way wack, and I honestly don't think we're gonna get anything done, so you can leave!"

"WHAT!" Mexico leaped out of her chair to strangle the American with his tie. America spluttered as his glasses slipped down considerably, one more harsh jerk making the glasses almost slip off completely.

"Thank god — "

"What about the closing prayer and moment of silence?"

"I'm not Christian asshole — "

Mexico overheard chairs being scraped and backs being popped as countries all too gladly left the room. Her eyes darted to the various shaped backs leaving the room and felt America trying to inch away from her to push his glasses up. Her brown eyes met his blue ones much too quickly.

"Why wouldn't you let us leave earlier? I had, we had to sit through that useless reading for nothing!"

America frowned. "It wasn't useless," he said tugging her tanned hand away from his tie, "we now know much more!"

Mexico rolled her eyes as she let go of him to cross her arms. "Yeah, well, it didn't even matter. It's not like you would have included me or _mis_ _hermanos_ anyway, so I still call bullshit." America looked offended.

"I would so have! I'm fair. I would have totally...who am I kidding. No, I wouldn't have, but no hard feelings right?" He asked with a bright smile seemingly not caring that he had directly just told her that she was useless. That smile made her even madder. She stomped on his foot with her black stiletto. Her heel dug deep into his thin sneakers, but she found herself not feeling any better.

"Dude! What the hell?!" America cried while wiggling his foot as if that would make the pain stop.

"This dude," Mexico hissed with a perfect impersonation of America's voice, "thinks this is all too fishy and a waste of time. Not just mine, but everyone's." America looked confused.

"Why would you think that? Germany needs to be brought back and since I'm a hero, it is my duty to — "

"That's not what I mean! Yes, I know Germany is very important, he's the major reason this organization exists but think. Why is it only now that our governments are hounding on us to find Germany? Why not the last meeting? Or the last? Or, I don't know, months ago!"

America seemed to pause. It was true, it had only been this meeting that his government had directly stated for him to find Germany (if he was still gone). He had mentioned it here and there. You know, getting the morning paper, in the break room for coffee but it was never explicitly stated. Never stressed, never pushed, never that important. With work and protecting (bullying) the world, that item of worry was pushed away to a bland manilla folder for later. Later, soon, but never now.

But it was now and America didn't know what to do. He had too many questions, too many suspicious people.

Mexico sensed that this was a shock to him as well and sighed. Her previous annoyed expression morphed into one of wariness.

"All I'm saying that this all too fishy. With Prussia, Austria, Hungary, and Italy. They are all suspicious."

"Why would you say that?" America asked fixing his glasses as if the answer would become clearer that way.

"Think about it," she held up her finger, "I'm sure you've seen it. The way Germany and Italy have been dancing around each other for a couple years now. At first, I thought it was a lover's spat, a bad fuck, a heated argument, something. But, Germany purposely went out of his way to avoid Italy. For two years. Isn't that suspicious? How Italy just conveniently ignored that before and is now suddenly crying like a baby from one entry?" she finished lowering her voice a bit.

"When you put it that way, I guess it makes sense," he agreed. "So you think it's actually Italy who's the bad guy here? Come on, this is Italy we're talking 'bout."

Mexico smiled sardonically. "There are no such things as heroes and villains, _pendejo_. I'm not saying anything, I'm just telling you to look at the bigger picture and clean your glasses once in awhile. You'll be surprised at what you'll find."

America smiled a charming smile to Mexico's neutral expression. "Don't worry your pretty little head, I'm going to bust this case and make everyone happy!" Mexico looked at him in disbelief but did not comment further.

"Whatever you say, _gringo._ " She turned around and started to head towards the other southern countries waiting by the door. She was about to turn the handle to leave when she paused. Her lips parted to say something but she shook her head. She turned the handle and left, her heels making a soft click, click as she started walking away to rapid Spanish from the other side.

"If things weren't so bleak, I would have said that was quite cute. Do you fancy each other?"

England's voice made America jump. He turned around and puffed out his cheeks. "Not funny dude. We aren't like that." But his face betrayed his tongue as his cheeks reddened slightly.

England hummed and looked at Italy. Italy had yet to move, his eyes staring at the book in, what was it? For such expressive eyes, England could not conjure a word to describe it. Italy was ineffable. Italy was not vibrating in place, shouting a random president's name, eating, sleeping, doodling, humming — nothing. Just staring.

Romano had left as well. He had insisted that he should stay with his younger brother, but Italy had given him a wide smile and told him he was fine. Romano argued and shouted, but Italy insisted that he was fine. More arguing ensued, but in the end, Italy had more power and left Romano tight-lipped and fuming. Romano let out a teary "whatever" and left sniffing with Spain out the door shortly after Mexico.

France had also left almost immediately afterward. There was only so much of the Englishman and sexual tension he could stand, so he had left with the nation exodus.

Austria and Hungary had lingered as well. Hungary had moved towards Italy in a motherly fashion while Austria trailed behind her stiffer.

"Oh, my poor Italy. Don't you worry, Germany will come back," Hungary had gained a dark shadow over her eyes, "or else I'll make him. Don't you worry, dear." Austria had sensed that the conversation from then on wouldn't be civil and dragged the shouting woman out the door in the promise of sweet bread and piano music.

Fifteen minutes had passed since America had disbanded the meeting and it wasn't much of a shock to see so many pushed back chairs around the table.

"Back to square one, huh?" America said looking frantically side to side.

"Yes, it seems that there has only —"

"That was my good hat too! Will Smith signed it and everything. This is not cool beans."

England's eyebrow twitched as he stared at the younger nation on his knees below the table. "Why would you want that atrocious thing? It's bleeding pink."

America's head shot out. "Hey! Don't diss the cap just because you're just jealous!"

"Oh bollocks, you've caught me. I'm secretly super jealous of your bright pink, cheaply manufactured in China, hat."

The sarcasm seemed to fly over America's head as he laughed saying, he knew it!

England grudgingly gave him the hat back to shut America up. America cradled it in his chest for a few seconds before shoving it in his pocket. It stuck out awkwardly and it was quite large for the small pocket of the slacks, but England was glad he wasn't wearing it on his head anymore.

"Well, that's out of the way, we need to do the next thing on the list."

"We?"

"Well, duh! You're helping me!"

"With what? I have things to do as well — !"

"Like knitting and doing air guitar to Nirvana songs from the radio alone in your room? Nope, you're helping me and," America leaned down to whisper into England's ear, "we're going to figure out more of this Germany business."

England looked at him unimpressed. "And what do you propose we do? You heard Mexico, this is all too fishy and it was only a couple of weeks ago that we were even notified of this," England whispered back glancing at Italy.

"The answer is in our face! I don't know why we are making this such a big deal, we literally have all the answers!" America whispered back excitedly.

England's eyebrows furrowed deeply. "The journal? It can't be that simple..."

America let out a pfft. "Don't listen to Mexico, she's all weed and tacos. Come on, we're going to go read another entry." America stood up but was harshly jerked back down by England.

"Are you mad? Can't you see how emotionally affected Italy is right now? I mean look at the poor sod, he's devastated," England hissed.

"I can hear you, England," Italy said looking at the pair with expectancy. England flushed a deep red.

"O-Of course, I knew that! I meant for you to overhear. Since you're so nosy and all. Yes, yes, not gossiping at all."

"..."

"How much did you hear?" America said walking over to sit by Italy instead of denying the statement.

Italy shrugged. "Enough."

America raised a brow. For Italy to look this dead, so blase, this...unhappy was quite alarming. England caught on as well and sat by Italy's left, America on Italy's right, effectively trapping the Mediterranean nation in the middle. "Are you sure you're alright, lad?"

Italy looked ready to cry. He looked down at his hands — the one's trembling, clutching onto his pant legs as if it were dear life, some kind of reassurance that he was still there. Italy nodded a mechanical nod but did not voice a response.

America, not one for awkward pauses, immediately filled the room with sound again. "There's no reason to cry Italy, as the hero, I will save Germany!" America's voice softened, "We'll save him, don't worry. Germany has tried to get away from us before, but he's always been dragged back, right? Germany's probably...I don't know, in dog heaven or something."

Italy's head snapped up. His eyes were streaming tears once again. His hands gesticulated wildly as he cried, "What?! Germany's dead! Nooo, I don't want Germany to die! He can't be dead!" America looked at England, but England just gave him a deadpan look.

"Woah, woah, dude! I was just kidding! Germany's not dead, it was just a figure of speech sopleasestopcryingalready!" America frantically said trying to console the crying man. Italy stopped crying, all tears ceasing in a split second, as if they were never there in the first, and gave out a relieved breath. Italy looked at the uncomfortable looking England and let out a small laugh.

"It's so nice for you to help America," Italy said smiling.

America grinned. "Of course! I gotta help a country in need." America flashed him a thumbs up. "But a hero needs a little help, just a little, though! So if you can just..."

"Just what?"

"You know, the first clue. Like a puzzle!" England facepalmed at how bad America was at alluding to things. Especially to a dense nation like Italy.

"There was a puzzle? When? Where?" Italy's head couldn't stop shaking both ways, as if the answer would randomly appear out of thin air.

"No, dude, the puzzle was a figure of speech — "

"Figure of speech? Language is confusing."

"So, yeah it is. But anyway, that's not the point, I just need you to, you know, give the goddamn — "

"What is the point? I don't see the point."

"There is no point, but —"

"Then why are we talking America?" Italy asked innocently.

"Just hand over the journal for fuck's sake!" America finally exclaimed in frustration. Italy's eyebrows furrowed.

"You want the journal? Why?"

America looked ready to shove the small man and steal the book away.

England put a hand on America's shoulder in what he hoped was a placating manner. "Let me handle this," England whispered clearing his throat unnecessarily, a scratchy sound that sounded painful and unpleasant.

"We need the journal, and you are going to give it to us," England ordered in a monotone voice. America squawked, and England gave him a smug smile at Italy's fearful shaking. Italy gulped.

"Y-You never told me why, though," Italy stuttered out still holding his ground.

England looked at America questioningly. "Because," America began exasperated, "this thingy is going to lead us right to Germany, and I dunno about you, but I really want my government to stop buggin' me about this. They need to chill out, sooo, the faster we find Germany, the better for all of us!"

The better for me.

"...So you don't care that Germany is gone? This is just for your government?" Italy asked not changing tone or volume.

America looked at England for support but England kept his mouth shut. "We care that Germany is gone...of course, pizza dude, don't go puttin' words in my mouth."

"We care? Who is we exactly?"

England's eyes widened. "What America means is that Germany has yet to be found and that is very worrisome — for everyone, lad. Our bosses, a bunch of sods really, demand things like this so, not only will we help you find Germany, but we will appease our superiors. You understand what I'm getting at?"

England had jumped up and moved quickly to shut America's mouth tightly with his left hand. America had been squirming and he had licked England's hand multiple times, but England had only gripped tighter and continued talking. America kept a sharp eye on Italy's increasingly depressing atmosphere-an invisible thing it was, yet so tangible for those who looked for it.

"This book doesn't belong to me. You could have taken it anytime," Italy stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, that is true, but..." England slowly lets go of his grip on America's mouth and sat back down not knowing how to proceed. What America had in mind was a question to him and Italy alike.

"So we can read this right? No hard feelings?"

Oh. Now England understood.

It wasn't that he couldn't read the journal, technically anyone could, but it was more of a personal thing. An ethical matter of prying into someone's property, into someone's beloved treasure. After all, Germany was practically Italy's and by reading Germany's (Italy's?) journal, it would be, in some kind deep, primal and savage way, an intrusion of what was his.

America could be considerate...but also incredibly stupid.

Italy smiled despite it all. That's all he could do, smile, laugh, force his cheeks to turn a different way and hope for the best. "Go ahead."

America cheered with a bright grin. "Sweet! I can take this back to my place right?" He asked fingers twitching to grab the already fragile book in his excited hands.

Italy bit his lip unsure. "Prussia didn't say if any of us could keep it."

America rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but I'm sure he was implying that I could keep it. I mean, why wouldn't he? I'm the her —!"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," England hissed. He schooled his expression into one of more reservedness and looked to Italy searchingly. "This wasn't something we discussed because _someone,_ " England glared to America, "decided to end the meeting early. We need to establish who will keep the book."

Italy looked confused. Typical, really.

"You or America," England clarified.

A moment of silence passed between them. Thirty seconds passed before America shouted, "I won!"

"What? Won what America?" England asked annoyed at America's attention span of a goldfish.

"The staring contest me and Italy were having. Isn't that right, Italy?"

Something about America's blue eyes didn't sit well with Italy. They were just so blue, so clear, so piercing that he felt the same chilliness run through his body at the clarity of the younger but much more powerful nation. Maybe it was the light, maybe the stress, maybe the smile, but Italy felt as if he couldn't escape this one through tears or a white flag.

"R-Right," Italy said squirming. England raised an eyebrow but was easily ignored. Italy handed America the journal with his veined hands, and America took it excitedly, almost ripping it out of his palms to immediately open the soft cover as if the binding wasn't made from old, archaic glues. He thumbed through the old, yellow pages with mild interest, and he licked his thumb every time he turned a page to ensure none of them would stick together. Italy slightly cringed at the sight but didn't say a word as America continued to look through the book.

America hummed as he rapidly flipped through the epistles. England grew curious as well and looked at the tearing, serrated pages in fascination.

"Oh shit."

"What?"

"I don't know how to read this old German!" America cried out in distress. He flung the book carelessly onto the table in agitation. The harsh, jerky movements caused a page to completely rip away. The tawny paper was barely hanging onto the binding, and all it took was just one sudden move, just one pull, just one touch, for it to collapse.

And it did.

Such a fragile thing those pages were, the older pages requiring the utmost care, and America sent the pages flying haphazardly through the air. The pages made ungraceful movements as they descended onto the ground quickly.

"Oh shit! No, no, no!" America exclaimed as he tried to snatch the papers from the ground and sort the scribbled pages in what he hoped was chronological order. The German started to blur in his head, and he was frantically trying to not create any more creases and tears.

He felt as if his heavy hand caused more destruction, his nimble fingers fumbling and failing. Italy and England just watched in morbid fascination. What a show this was. A destructive, humiliating, yet entertaining show of misery.

With the pages back in the book, the pages sticking out at awkward and uneven angles, America offered Italy a weak smile.

"Haha, so I may have messed up a little, but trust me, this book is in good hands!"

Italy just gaped. America had demanded to take the book from him, tried to play the nice guy by tricking him to think that he was considering his feelings (a fake sympathy, he couldn't tell) went and almost destroyed the book — an artifact, (an irreplaceable — !) because of a simple obstacle. He didn't even consider the age, the fragility, the worth, the meaning...he...he didn't care.

None of them did.

Italy swallowed down another set of tears. It was stupid really, why would he cry over something like that? Just a couple pages gone from the glue. A couple words misplaced. An honest mistake from an excited child. Nothing to cry over.

Yet, Italy had never felt like bawling more than now. It just wasn't fair.

If Italy was devastated, England was enraged.

"AMERICA! You just almost destroyed the blasted thing with your whale hands! Don't you understand how severe this is? Is this some kind of fucking joke to you? You could try to control your strength and not manhandle everything!"

"Woah, woah, I'm sorry okay! I didn't think it would just go splat like that, jeez! Besides it was only the papers that came out so it's not like burnt the book or anything, so stop yelling!" America shouted back.

Italy ignored them and took a couple deep breaths to expel the thoughts of cry, cry, cry, cry already, and took the journal in his hands once more. It still felt heavy. It still felt old.

"I'm going to read another entry. Then I'm going to take it back home," Italy said with a sniff. His voice was even enough and it caused the men to stop arguing and stare.

"No way dude, that thing is coming home with me. With the tech I have back at my place, I bet I can find Germany in a jiffy."

"What tech? That slow thing you call the bloody interweb? No, wait, internet. Oh, let me guess, you're going to find Germany with a pager," England derided already wanting to leave and go home to his cat and warm tea.

"I'm taking this to my place because you don't seem to care." Italy wasn't in the mood to be cute at the moment.

"I do so care — "

"This isn't a game!" Italy finally shouted with his eyes open with tears ready to leak out. Italy gently clutched the book his chest. "This, this isn't a joke, o-or a competition, or a game. You can't just laugh it off and think it will be okay. This isn't something to play with!" Italy said softer now, looking down at the table instead of the azure eyes of America that Germany had gifted him with. He smiled bitterly.

"I'm going to take this with me and find him. I may not have...the internet web thingy you have, but I will try my best."

America let out a defeated sigh. "You really love him doncha?"

Italy blinked upwards, his gaze meeting America's curtly.

Love? Did he love Germany? He didn't think it was love. Germany was his best friend, a friend he felt as if he had met before, and he cared a lot for the socially stunted man. He felt as if he had heard that before. That he loved Germany. Was it France? Or was it Austria? He couldn't remember.

Italy didn't answer, and America didn't give him time to as he was already getting up and yawning. England got up as well and grumbled, yet he did not leave either.

"Well, it seems that I can't do anything to pry that book from ya," America said. He grabbed his coffee cup (where had that come from?) and took an obnoxious sip. "Don't think I won't help, though. Because after all — "

"Dear god, don't say it."

" — I'm the hero!"

"Dammit."

England sighed. "I'm going to regret this later, but I'm also willing to help. Germany's not a bad man, a violent, sexually repressed man with too much hair gel, but not a bad man. So." England turned away to hide his blushing face.

Italy smiled genuinely. "Thank you, England. America. This means a lot to me."

"HAHA! Gnarly dude!" America laughed at England's horrified, disgusted face.

"You should see your face!"

"Belt up! I swear you become duller and duller every time I visit you. Pure rubbish I tell you—"

"Is your tampon a little tight Iggy? It's ok, I have some pills to—"

"YOU — !"

Click.

Italy was alone. The once lively room was now vacant. The light bulb Liechtenstein had shot at earlier was flickering on and off. The room was considerably darker on one side, but with so many other industrial-sized lights and bright windows, you could barely tell the difference.

Italy stopped clutching the book on his chest and set it down on the table. He didn't have to read it out loud, hide the quivering in his voice or act like the words on the page weren't affecting him. He hadn't been reading anything gruesome or sickening before, but the sentences still made his stomach queasy. An unshakable breath of fear that followed his neck at all time, making his hair stand up in alarm. This feeling of dread. He didn't like it one bit.

Because every time he felt this way, someone died.

Just as Grandpa had. Just as Holy Rome had.

He kept telling himself _if only I had acted on that feeling_ over and over again in his mind — on those restless nights where the room was too hot, the pillows too stiff, the world too silent. It had always been what if's and if only's and now that there is the what now...

He opened the book and carefully flipped the pages. He was now more cautious after seeing America rudely defiling the innocent journal in his fit of mini rage.

He skimmed the pages and saw that America had surprisingly placed all the pages back in their rightful place. They were put a bit sloppy, that couldn't be helped from the haste, but overall the book wasn't in terrible condition. Maybe he had overreacted a bit. Maybe he should have gone and given the book to America...he was more stable at the moment...had more technology...

Italy shook his head. He flipped and read. He placed his finger on the indented page and was surprised to see long dried tear stains. There weren't many, but the ones on the page were rather large. The page felt crinkly and he quickly looked at the date.

 ** _"14. September 1869"_**

Italy recoiled a bit at the time gap. It was nearly fifty years since the last entry. To think, forty-eight years had gone by and it only took Italy a second to flip through the page.

 ** _"I have not written in this journal for a long time, and I apologize. A lot has been on my mind lately."_**

The writing was neater, much straighter and smaller. The letters were no longer crooked and scribbled, but the scribe was still not as neat as it could have been.

 ** _"Brother has been so cold lately. Can I call him that? Lately, all he wants me to do is train. I trained with him before, I'm not lazy, but this is just extreme! I don't know how to word this. I'm just so frustrated!_**

 ** _It's always: one more lap, one more push-up, stop being a baby. Again. Stop being lazy and move. I'm not being lazy, I just can't go on._**

 ** _We don't stop for anything. We've trained in the pouring rain before, and even though we didn't get sick, it still made my throat hurt the next morning. I bet if a funeral were passing, he would say to just run around it and shout a prayer as I went._**

 ** _Yesterday, he had called me out to the field to train like always. Training is important, I understand, but every day? Couldn't I just get a break? My legs were still sore from yesterday, twenty-five laps around the whole village weren't enough apparently, and he demands to be met on the field every day at sunrise, or else he will make the training an hour longer."_**

Italy lowered the book for a moment.

 _"Can't we just take a nap? It's so nice out today."_

 _"We can if you want to die of heart failure out on the battlefield."_

 _"So mean!"_

Why would Germany abide by Prussia's strict rules if he knew all too well how annoying and laborious they are? Germany knew how it felt, how it made him look like, yet —

Germany didn't care if Italy and Japan hated him.

 _" **I took the threat lightly at first. Brother loves me, well, loved, I suppose. He would...embarrassingly coddle me and spoil me before. He disciplined me when needed, but I can't say he liked doing it. But now, I take that all back. He enjoys my suffering!**_

 ** _Yesterday at training (Hell) he demanded thirty-five laps around the village in less than an hour. After that, fifty push-ups with sacks of potatoes on my back and then gun practice for another hour. Repeated three times. With no breaks in between and barely any water. Where did my loving brother go? Is it because I'm taller now? Less 'cute'?_**

 ** _I was wheezing on the ground by the second round. I needed a break but Prussia just yanked me by my hair and demanded why I wasn't running and why I was being a 'little bitch' about things. I couldn't speak out any words as I was breathing too heavily. My throat was dry and the sun was sweltering._**

 ** _The sunburns still hurt. The nape of my neck is a disgusting red and this stiff collar is no help at all. I can't move my neck much and my face has surprisingly tanned a bit, but some parts of my face have not been spared to the_ _blotchiness_ _. I would ask Brother if there's a remedy for this burn, but he always shoos me away looking more serious than he really is._**

 ** _He doesn't care about me anymore. He's almost the same as that pervert France. I was so scared back then. It had been my first time away from Brother. France is a slimy man that I do not trust. But at least he didn't make me work like this. Maybe I like him better. Better women..."_**

Italy read the text with sad eyes. He had seen Prussia in his glory days, an army as a nation as they used to say, and he knew how vicious the man could be.

Italy never knew the hard life. Not like his older brother. His hands were not calloused or overly tanned. He did not need to work very hard, his land being naturally vied for with its natural resources and rich culture. What a shock it had been when he had started training with Germany back during the Second World War.

He suddenly had dirt under his nails. He felt the sticky moisture running down his back, not sweat from the sun, but from physical activity. His body was sore, but it had been sore because he had inflicted the stinging on himself. Not because of his economy or battles, but because he had done it to himself. It had felt...odd. Annoying. But seeing Germany's proud smile behind his cap made it all worth it.

If Germany back then couldn't have even gotten a proud smile out of Prussia, what was the point? Italy had to admire Germany's willingness to follow conduct, even to the hands of the Devil.

Italy continued.

 ** _"Yesterday's training seems like a blessing now. Brother wasn't pleased that I wasn't improving on my time on the laps so he made me run through the whole village with a sack of flour in my arms. It was hot, the hottest it has been for a while, and the bag of flour was hard to hold with me running so fast. I had sat the bag of flour down to catch my breath twenty minutes in, but he screamed in my face to get moving again. My legs ached, the sunburn was chafing under my sweaty collar, and I felt weak._**

 ** _I lasted another ten minutes before I started wheezing heavily. I had to stop. The sun was so hot. It felt like an inferno. I shouldn't have been so warm, but with no water and my lungs heaving heavily, it felt like the closest thing to Hellfire._**

 ** _I don't remember exactly what Brother said, I just knew I was crying and he was yelling at me to stop crying. I could feel the villagers staring and gossiping behind my back. I must have looked pathetic with me wheezing, crying, gasping, and hunched over like that. I begged him for some water, for a short break, but he kept telling me how on the battlefield there is no break or water or please brother._**

 ** _I guess I am being a baby. Brother has gone through so much. He has a lot of experience! But, I don't think it was worth the humiliation._**

 ** _I felt woozy. It was the oddest feeling. I felt so out of touch with the world for a few seconds, I truly thought Brother's eyes were the Devil and that I was finally going to die. My head had that same feeling of being drunk and my eyes were trying to find something to focus on and not look so pathetic for Brother. Everything became blurry and there was a slight ringing in my ears, almost as if grains of sand were being percolated into my eardrums soflty and loudly._**

 ** _I almost didn't feel my chin hit the ground from the numbness. I think it was a warning from God. I think he was trying to tell me something because before I knew it, all I saw was black._**

 ** _I had passed out from exhaustion. That's what Brother tells me, but I firmly believe it was God. I had heard a voice calling me. Ludwig, it had said. It was worried and I knew that a kindness like that can only be from God. It just had to be, because I know Brother couldn't have said that. My human name probably means nothing to him anymore."_**

Italy ran his fingers through the smudged ink. Black ink and tears had blurred the words together making it a bit difficult to make out. He felt the page dip with every cursive letter. A confused and sad teenage Germany fluttered through his mind. He could just imagine him dipping the quill in the black ink and pressing the pen firmly-too firmly-on the page to vent out the anger and hide (unsuccessfully) the tears.

If Germany could make Italy feel this way with only the second entry, he didn't want to know how the entries would become further down the future.

 ** _"I remember when he gave me the name Ludwig. I was so happy and touched that he had let me chose it. I wanted him to choose it for me, though. Naming myself isn't special. I could have done that anytime, but if it was a name from Brother, it was more special. It still his...but, I really do wonder where that kind man went._**

 ** _I'm scared for to-morrow. Brother hasn't said a word to me since I woke up from my little episode. Am I that much of a failure? I just want to be like Brother. But I know deep down I never can be. I could list all of the reasons why, but ink is expensive and it's not like Brother will buy me more._**

 ** _This experience has taught me something. First, never cry at someone yelling at you. Especially a superior. This will be hard to master, but I loathed that feeling of humiliation and weakness. I can't stand it!_**

 ** _Second, I will never treat anyone like that. Ever. I've been having these weird chest pains lately and more headaches. I've become more irritable, and I've been having this urge to just slap Brother and scream at him, but I feel like it's just the emotions talking. Either way, treating someone like that is just wrong! Brother can fight me, I don't care, this is cruel._**

 ** _I've read this emotion called revenge in many books. It's a stupid emotion that only seems to cause trouble, but as the days go on, I wonder if that's really the case. I just hate that look. It's the same one France had when he took me for his dumb Confederation. It just makes me so riled up!_**

 ** _I have a massive head pain at the moment and Brother thinks I'm asleep, so I will it end it here."_**

Italy stared at the final paragraph. France? What did France have to with anything? Italy had to really dig deep into his memory to remember what was going on in Europe in the late nineteenth century.

Ah, so much stuff to remember! Makes my brain hurt, Italy thought running hazy dates through his head quickly.

By the late nineteenth century, he had already known of Holy Rome's death. It was hard not to know when living on such a small, clustered continent. He remembered the murmurs and rumors of a new nation up north from him. A small and probably-is-going-to-die-soon nation. If only he had known back then.

Italy smiled a bit. He by then had already gained his independence and was in the process of (grudgingly) unifying his country into a single kingdom with its southern half. He winced at his younger self's attitude towards his older brother. He may have been a bit of a dick...and a diva and spoiled, but really, no country could just be selfless.

The Kingdom of Italy. What a nice name that had been. So regal, so imposing, so...powerful. A kingdom. A kingdom that barely lasted. A kingdom that had crumbled, had been brutally destroyed.

Italy frowned not liking his line of thinking. Italy tried to remember the epoch that was close to the date on the thin page in front of him.

Italy declared war on Austria in 1866 with the help of Prussia and never saw or heard of Germany. Prussia is not one to keep things to himself, especially promising things such as an uprising, powerful nation. Prussia should have been babbling and boasting about his "awesome" younger brother, an obedient and "cute" thing he called Deutschland, but if Italy remembered right, Prussia didn't make one single comment about Germany.

He had just grinned, uniform ready, and patted his back too hard saying, "His Ita is finally growing some balls."

Could it have been that Prussia didn't want Italy to know? Was it possible that he had kept his lips shut for the sake of Italy because he had known of whose land that used to belong to?

Had Prussia been considering his feelings back then?

That...was nice of him. Nice, but unneeded.

Italy sighed and looked out the window. He stared at the blue water of the East River.

In the pristine, perfectly air-conditioned building, he could not hear a thing expect the machines dull hum in the background. What noises lay outside...New York City wasn't just a city, it was a country of its own. Culture, dialect, influence, heterogeneity, capital, resources, it had it all. It just needed a leader and it could have passed as a nation, it had worked for half of Europe (but many of those countries died within the century).

The calm waters did not calm him. The sight should have been something comforting — being a Mediterranean country after all — but he couldn't help but think it was a fake calmness. The words from the journal ran through his head. Over and over and over and over and over again.

He racked his brain of what use they could have. What their importance could be. A code? He doubted that. A secret longing to be with his brother? Maybe Germany was in love with Prussia. Maybe Prussia was disgusted with that love and shoved the book to the nations in hope to run away from the truth. Out of sight, out of mind after all.

That thought stung. It left a pain in his chest that he couldn't explain why it did. He had to keep thinking-keep thinking to try to forget the feelings he's trying to hide...

Italy looked at the bright window hypnotized. So bright, so warm, so —

...

"I don't know where he is Mr. Amato sir...It's not like Germany confides in me much anymore."

"You're so clingy to him. How do you not know where he is?"

"Well, he hasn't really talked to me since that meeting of nineteen ninety —"

"It must have been your fault then. It's always your fault."

"...Maybe, but Mr. Amato, I don't know what you expect from me, I know as much — "

"You went to that meeting right? Did you do nothing again?" Italy winced at the frustrated, impatient huff.

"I did Mr. Amato, no one knows where Germany is either! Not even Mr. America, Mr. Amato, sir — "

"Will you stop calling me that? It's just Mr. Amato," the older man snapped through the speaker close to Italy's ear. Italy distanced the large phone away from his ear and stuttered.

"A-Ah, I'm sorry — "

"Just find Germany quickly. This is important and you can't be a fuck up like always. Got it?"

"Yessir! I will find Germany and — "

The line went dead and Italy stared at the thick, tan block in his hands. The new and improved phone America liked to brag about. Only the finest he had boasted. It did the same thing and he still heard the same people. What was new...

He sighed as he heard the distinct click of the blocky phone hitting the plastic. He looked at the different numbers for room service and wished there was a number to take away his worry.

"Such a bastard. Corrupting my economy and demanding things. I'm worried too!" Italy told the dim hotel room in anger, all his fear replaced by annoyance. He lied on the cool bed on his side trying to calm down.

"I want him back too..." Italy muttered softly to the warm, white pillow. He clutched the fine fabric in his hand and felt his eyes close halfway. The journal was on the glass table by his bedside. He had a beautiful view of the city life, but having visited New York City so many times, the lights had lost their glamor and have become annoying. The noise pollution was irritating and the luminescence was too bright, too fake. It seemed like a waste to him, but he couldn't deny how captivating the buildings were with their soft glows.

Italy turned around and checked the dull light of the digital clock.

Eleven o'clock.

Early for a city that never slept.

Italy turned around and was supine on the bed. He forced his eyes shut. He squeezed them tight and saw the annoying phosphenes dance around in his vision before returning to a solid black.

One minute. Two minutes. Four minutes. Six minutes. Ten minutes.

His eyes snapped back open, the room just the same as it had been ten minutes ago. He expected it to change as if his internal struggle would distort the world because of his angst. His hand absentmindedly patted the cool bed sheet beside him as if Germany's warm, sturdy body would appear and tell him to go back to sleep in his gruff, mellifluous voice.

He would then whine and snuggle closer to the tense, large back. He would be shooed away verbally but the body wouldn't move. It would be warm and he would sigh in content. He would whisper sweet dreams and the response would be late and soft. The pale body would hitch its breath and not go to sleep until after he was snoring lightly and disgustingly comfortable. He would then...

God, Italy missed Germany. He missed him so much.

It was pathetic. How his heart could clench and twist at the thought of Germany's soft, awkward blush and mutters of an affectionate _dummkopf_. He felt like a child clinging to the long dress of its mother for protection-needy, clingy and lonely. His lip was aquiver with longing.

Italy decided to turn on the television. The first thing that appeared was Disney Channel. Some reruns of Duck Tales were playing and he smiled slightly at the dull colors from the thick, rounded glass screen. The television filled the room with crashes and high pitched voices, but Italy felt content. If only for now.

During an Easy-Bake Oven commercial, Italy jumped at the shrill sound of the hotel phone. It rang unnecessarily loud and he groaned at the aspect of his boss calling again.

He picked up the phone and held it a good distance away from his ear in case of sudden yelling. " _Ciao?_ Feliciano Vargas speaking."

"Italy! Good thing you're not asleep yet, 'cuz I forgot to tell everybody that there will be no more meetings this week. You can go home," America yelled with loud, honking noises in the background. A street ambiance. He was no doubtingly calling from a local pay phone and was probably out having fun. Although it was a Thursday, it seemed that New Yorkers said fuck you to time and date and partied when they pleased.

"What? I had plane tickets to leave on Monday!" Italy said sitting straight on the bed. He quickly fumbled with the long T.V. remote and muted the television, leaving the smiling girls speechless.

America made an uncaring noise. "Sorry dude, but without Germany here and the book being the only thing we can work with, there's no point in havin' em. 'Sides, I bet you don't wanna read out loud that thing every day 'till Monday right?"

"Right, I guess so..."

"So yep! I bet ya can find a plane back home anyway. Travel safe!"

"Wait — !"

Italy lowered the device and stared at the beeping phone in disbelief. He slammed the phone down harshly to shut the annoying ringing.

He looked at the muted television, the humorous ducks on the screen doing nothing for his foul mood. The small duck with the blue cap had gotten comically punched and the other ducklings were laughing with tears in their eyes soundless. He grabbed the remote and pushed the red off button harshly. The colors slowly faded away as the last frame froze on the glass and melted away soon after as well.

Italy took off his shirt and pants along with his socks. He crawled into bed and struggled to reach the light switch on the wall lamp. He eventually found it and flicked it off. He lied in bed and thought. His eyes refused to shut, his head had a dull throb to sleep, but he kept his heavy eyelids open.

He heard the clock ticking and he didn't know how he could be thinking about nothing, absolutely nothing and be considered alive. It was a fascinating thing. To just stare in the dark alone, to hear your own breath go in and out, to hear the too loud heartbeat through your ear and feel nothing. Some had described as God, others the Devil, others insanity. In the end, they were just different words to describe the same feeling.

Having enough with his fickle feelings, he closed his eyes once more and tried to force the annoying questioning on how his breathing came naturally and how to breathe again normally. He took a deep breath, the exhale leaving a warm trace on his upper lip, and thought about happy things. Like pasta and women.

Just think about happy things.

...

 **Mis Hermanos — _brothers in Spanish_**

 **Gringo — S _panish slang for a U.S. citizen_**

 **Pendejo — _Spanish slang for i_ _diot_ _/dumbass_**

 **Azure Eyes of America That Germany Had Gifted Him — _There are three main waves of immigration in the U.S. The first being the "Old Immigrants" that were from Western Europe before the 1880's. Many of them were German and Scandinavian, thus America having heavy roots with Germany._ _Germerica_ _?_**

 **Dummkopf — _German_ _for idiot_**

 **...**

 **I don't remember the early 90's, so it's actually very interesting to do research on the tech and culture back then. Pagers were much more common than cell phones, but I couldn't find if they were international so I made none of the nations have it.**

 **The story is finally going to pick up after this chapter. We're going to finally move away from the cliche "world meeting" intro.**


	4. The Stepping Stone of the Bluebird

Chapter Four — The Stepping Stone of the Bluebird

...

Italy returned from the airport dead tired (eight hours of his life he never wants to relive — the shifting, odors, proximity, earliness, restlessness being something he should be used to but never quite will). Italy crawled to his kitchen, walking taking too much effort, for some real food and immediately went to bed straight afterward.

Eating had been lonely. Italy just eating his salad because of necessity and not out of any real enjoyment. (Anything was better than airport food he reasoned when he tasted the cold ranch at his large table.)

He hadn't brushed his teeth in the morning before leaving, him being too busy zipping up his pants in record time, hailing too expensive taxis, flirting with ladies, and the general lethargicness and panic that came with traveling.

 _"Ciao! You look lonely, and I can't let a beautiful woman such as yourself be lonely. I'm Feliciano Vargas. And you are~?"_

 _"Ellie Lechmann. You're quite the charmer, aren't you."_

Talking to that flight attendant had been fun for Italy. She was easy on the eyes and didn't seem to mind that he talked a lot or didn't make much sense. His passenger buddy did not want to talk, the balding old man (whose face resembled a pug, but not quite as cute Italy decided when looking at the saggy skin) being more interested in scowling and staring at the Sky High magazine than talking to him.

The flight attendant had been nice and many people from the back of the plane joined in on the conversation despite the roaring engines and unfamiliarity.

In all, the trip hadn't been too bad. There was some drama at the security line, but Italy appeased the raging woman with some flirting and playfulness with her baby. (The baby was the highlight of his trip, it was just so cute!)

After the long airport trip, his chauffeur drove him to his house (it was always a shock getting used to America's smooth roads then coming back) and here he is now.

Back to his home. Back to his aging house by the small river. Back to...what did he have to return to?

Italy sighed into his cool bedsheets. He needed to take a shower.

The sound of constant streams of water was something Italy has only gotten used to this century, before the sound of water filling his ears being one to fear for heavily-the sound being the last before everything went dark and you were left soundlessly gasping to an uncaring force.

In his small, white bathtub, he could see the water pool around his feet and quickly drain away. Nothing to fear, yet sometimes he would curl his toes and expect warm sand to seep in between his toes. Only when his toes scraped against the slippery, ridged porcelain would he snap out of it and twist the knob to stop the water immediately with his pruned fingers.

Italy had to remind himself that he was thinking far too deep into things. But, Italy had always had a love/hate relationship with water. He needed it and had thrived from it for centuries, him even being on top of the economy once in the grand storybook of European History.

Yet, the water would always come back to mock him and put him back in his place. Just when he thought he was above nature, finally accomplishing something, the water came back and washed away the memories. It was nice. (In a way.)

He could bury his heart in the water and never look back at it, the floodings being the key he didn't want.

So, as he had stared at the running faucet, his hands cupped still under the gushing water, he had laughed in marvel at the water being so controlled. All it took was just a turn of the shiny, metal knob and it would cease to pour. That easy.

It shouldn't be that easy. Water was too free. Too spirited and wild.

"I must be reaaally tired to be thinking like Greece. Is it normal to always think like this? I need to go get out more. Sleep. Oh, glorious sleep..." Italy thought while messily rubbing his damp hair with a white towel. The towel was thrown on the floor soon after and the body towel hanging on his pelvis was discarded as well right after. Italy felt a rush of familiar coolness envelop his body. The chilly night doing nothing to make his skin not stand up in goosebumps.

With clean teeth and a clean body, Italy crash-landed on the soft mattress. His foot hung off the bed and the edge of the bed was poking his bony knees, but he felt his eyes droop heavier and heavier. His body felt clean, yet his mind burned with compulsive, dirty thoughts. Muddy, hazy thoughts that even the water couldn't wash away. Italy just was one big oxymoron...

And so, Italy slept. He didn't bother with a blanket, his breathing heavy and rhythmic by the time coldness seeped through his skin.

...

Italy woke up again to the bright sun of late afternoon. Traveling always took a lot out of him, but he was glad to at least wake up groggy-eyed to his own ceiling rather than a nice hotel in New York, New York.

He did mundane things that day. Watered his plants, chucked envelopes into the trash bin, practiced his guitar, cleaned up a bit, cooked, drew, went to town for groceries while petting cute cats on the way, and called back a couple girls to cancel "dates."

He wasn't avoiding the journal on his kitchen table. Of course not. He was simply a busy man. The garage is looking a bit cramped after all and he simply must wash his antique car.

There were things to do, places to be, people to talk to, journals to not read.

But even then, when the sun had set once more-when he waved goodbye to the happy families closing shops, he still felt a heavy knot in his throat.

Things were changing and he was refusing to concede.

He wasn't stubborn, it was just wrong. He couldn't fight back his personality or change it (even if it had been different centuries ago), it was just who he was. What he had been molded to. His fears, his loves, they weren't his.

But Italy knew that he couldn't avoid the journal forever. The journal wasn't going to go away just because he shut his eyes and couldn't see it anymore. If he could do it in a U.N. building, then he should be able to do it in his home. Right? Surely, his people could at least grant him the strength to not just stare at the chronicle in the vain hope that it would solve itself.

He was mocking himself. Placing the journal in such a blatant and open position. He knew that he passed the book almost every hour (he saw it in his peripheral vision when leaving to the sunny outside) and he simply knew that he was indirectly running away again.

It was a gnawing feeling, feeling that self-inflicted guilt worsens with every outing and bite, so he decided to at least try and paint a brave face on the cowardice canvas he called himself.

So, the second day back from America, (right after Mass of course) he had manned up and actually acknowledged the book's existence. All that staring must have done him some good as the book looked normal to him now. Not frightening and, well, boring.

It was after lunch, his belly feeling gross and slushy, despite having such delicious self-made food, when he decided to read another entry. It was never specified if he could read ahead but he was going to anyway. His country, his rules.

He bit his tongue as he settled into his chair and sipped some juice from a straw. He would drink wine, but getting intoxicated was not his priority. Though, it didn't sound like a bad idea now...

"This is just like a storybook. These words aren't scary. These words are entertaining, like a mystery show. I'll be the cool detective! Just don't look too deep into things and don't feel so much and I should be fine. Yeah!" Italy puffed out his cheeks at this thought process and felt himself become a bit soothed.

He flipped through the book slowly, like the laggard he was, and stopped when he saw the correct entry.

 _ **"18. January 1871**_

 _ **Even though I knew this day would come, I cannot believe it. I am no longer writing as a fragile, unsure being, but a certified nation. I am now part of The Germanic Empire, and I marvel at how powerful it sounds. It shouldn't feel this right to say it, but I feel my people's content. Their cries to become something were finally answered and manifested in me."**_

1871\. The same year Italy had unified with his lazy older brother.

 _ **"Reading back on my last entry, I feel shame. I was acting like a baby, and I look at it now with regret. Things could have been worse. Brother could have literally killed me to keep his land thriving and prospering. It isn't uncommon, Brother made sure of telling me that, and it would have been so easy.**_

 _ **But he didn't. He kept me alive for some reason I still can't fathom and raised me. Brother can be a complete, total bastard, but it is not to say that he does not have a heart.**_

 _ **(Sometimes.)**_

 _ **Fighting off the other countries had been intimidating.**_

 _ **I was not strong. Or big. Or had any experience other than basic defense. Denmark, I already hate him, came by and thought he could push me around. I may be smaller than him, but I wasn't going to simply let him walk all over me just because he had a large weapon and a cocky smirk.**_

 _ **Honestly, is a giant ax practical in any way other than striving for attention?**_

 _ **...Although he did not hurt me too badly, (I won the battle) that did not mean his words did not leave an impact on me. What he had said was true.**_

 _ **I was a nobody. I was just a lonely, useless boy clinging onto something powerful and hoping that it would rub off on him. I was a weak nation too confused and brainwashed to know what it really wanted.**_

 _ **I was made to be taken over and destroyed. Over and over again until someone finally — "**_

Italy had to shove the book away for a couple seconds. He took a sip of his juice, the brightly colored straw making slurping noises already, and returned back to the brick of text.

 _ **" — takes pity and tries to make the desperate nation into something it is not. Which is supposedly me.**_

 _ **'How do you know that Prussia isn't just using you? How can you be so easily trusting of him?' Denmark had asked while twirling his ax absentmindedly behind his back like the show off he was.**_

 _ **I at the time tried to tell myself that wasn't the case, but with the sudden neglect and harsh training, the words had seemed plausible. He had seen this pause in doubt and jumped on it like a leech.**_

 _ **'You can't possibly believe that Prussia is doing this on his own free will. That he cares about you? You're nothing to him. Just another piece of land for his empire. Once he sees how weak and useless you are, I guarantee that he won't think twice about leaving you.'"**_

Italy flipped the second page carefully, the page being a victim of America's little tantrum. It was flimsy and fully torn out but Italy was too invested in the words to fully pay attention.

 _ **"Brother wasn't like that. I had known it back then, but with so much pent-up confusion and pride, it was difficult to not be swayed by an older and wiser nation.**_

 _ **'I don't believe you. You're lying. Brother isn't like that.'**_

 _ **Denmark had thrown his head back and laughed. It only fueled my rage, so I suppose it was a joke on him.**_

 _ **'This is rich! He even makes you think he is your brother. Let me guess, he also told you that he will always protect you. Well, where is he now? The all mighty Big Brother Prussia?' That smirk looked much better with blood. I would know.**_

 _ **'Doing better things than having to deal with someone who smells like shit and expired milk.' I will admit. I was a bit sassy."**_

Italy threw his head back and laughed. The wonderful sound absorbed into the thick, brick wall.

He laughed until tears came out of his eyes and he wished he had been there to see this go down.

If it was hilarious on paper, he couldn't imagine how funny it would have been in person! He knew the face Denmark made when offended. It was hilarious, no doubt his face being funnier since it was a small, pubescent Germany he was going up against.

 _ **"His joking mood had vanished and he growled at me like some kind of wild dog. I knew that he couldn't be fully human. Dogs are nice but to want to be them was a bit much...**_

 _ **'So easily manipulated. Take it from an actual nation, kid. I know your so-called brother means the world to you now, but just wait until his true colors show. Because you want to know something?'**_

 _ **I was curious. I didn't have much choice either since he continued running his fat mouth anyway.**_

 _ **'You aren't special. You aren't the only person to call Prussia, Big Brother. The person before you is long dead. But you know what's funny?'**_

 _ **No one had been laughing.**_

 _ **'He didn't even cry at their death. Didn't even blink an eye as their body was brutally murdered at the hands of his so-called friend. Blood was everywhere, his real flesh and blood were being killed in front of his eyes and he just walked away. Just like that. Didn't give a single fuck that he had lost his precious brother.'**_

 _ **'W-Why are you telling me this? What do you have to gain from this?'**_

 _ **'Don't you get it? You're not special. Not unique! Prussia will leave you just as he did before. He won't cry at your death and you will mean nothing to him. He will probably smile when he — '**_

 _ **I couldn't stand hearing what he had to say. It was too much. We fought, and I did not come out unscathed. I was pleased that Denmark had taken a good blow as well. I need to work on my right hook.**_

 _ **I was too fueled by hate and jealousy to think clearly.**_

 _ **I could have walked away. Told him to leave and try to negotiate something, but I don't really know how to negotiate. It all seems useless to me.**_

 _ **Why bother with flowery words when you can literally show them your power? Actions speak louder than words. At least, that's what Brother had told me.**_

 _ **Although this event happened quite some time ago, back in 1864 if I recall correctly, his words are still engraved in my head. This occurred before my last entry, and I think that little war I had Denmark might have been a reason Brother pushed me so hard. He didn't want, couldn't have a weak nation as an ally. If it was ordered from his boss, or from his own will, I don't know**_

 _ **I suppose I took it too personally. I took his words to heart and now they are stuck there. I wish they could just leave.**_

 _ **I am still having a difficult time adjusting to so much royalty. The concept of having an official boss is frightening. Sure, I was under Brother's care before, but it was a mutual understanding of boundaries and growth.**_

 _ **With all these duchesses and royal families, I am sure I am going to offend them in some way. I do not want to, but I can come across as...blunt or unapproachable. I can't be that bad right?"**_

Italy looked at the page sympathetically. He knew the pain of royalty and pompous humans all too well — don't get him started on Vatican City.

Italy has offended his superiors so many times that it was really a game to him now. They were going to either die, get removed, or commit suicide in the end, so it didn't matter what fat, frowning person sat on the throne. (Though, he did have many superiors that he genuinely liked and cried when they passed away, their children being unfair victims of longing gazes.)

Plus, Italy didn't think Germany was a bad person. Even England didn't think so, and he hated everyone!

Germany was just so young...and it was times like this that Italy has to remember that Germany was barely two centuries old. Germany...with his gelled back hair and bulging muscles, was really still just a brat.

A brat that had caused more blood, more suffering, and agony than any other nation in the world.

That brat had succeeded in making all of Europe dead broke — inside and out — and was still able to transform from the most hated nation in the world to the most dependable and trusted within the same century.

Italy couldn't do that, not in a million years. Italy took another sip of his drink, there was nothing left to sip really, and continued reading before he could go philosophical and be "a depressing piece of shit." Romano's words, not his.

 _ **"That is not my main concern for now, though.**_

 _ **What I'm more concerned about is how I'm going to make this empire not fall apart. With so many people (41 million to be exact) and such rapid advancements, I wonder if I will be able to keep up. I'm just so inexperienced.**_

 _ **From what Brother says, I might just be able to beat Britain in terms of industry in a couple more years. More railroads are being added and things are changing rapidly.**_

 _ **I feel myself getting more intelligent as well. Those humans. No. My people are starting to build more universities and I have to admire how cunning they are.**_

 _ **I'm full of life and hope. It's an odd feeling. I've never felt this liberated and, well, eager.**_

 _ **I think Brother knew this. He sensed I would not want to be under his control for much longer and foresaw that I would start to become more hostile towards him.**_

 _ **I did, for a time, become more hostile towards him. I was angry at him for not caring, angry at myself for caring, and angry because my people were making me angry. I was not a pleasant person to be around at that time.**_

 _ **Now, I can only say that I am most grateful. For everything. The training, the lessons- academic and morally. All of it. Even if I haven't seen him in months.**_

 _ **Although things are great right now, I can't help but feel like something bad is going to occur soon. Something foreboding and large. I don't want to put a damper on the cheery feelings, but I sense an unrest within the continent. The thirst for power is not rare, but I cannot help but worry. I can't pinpoint it exactly, but I feel like I mustn't let myself become accustomed to my growing riches.**_

 _ **Because although I say that I wasn't affected by Denmark's words, his voice still echoes through my mind. Taunts me when I close my eyes and makes me feel small and insecure-as if I were just a small child again hiding under Brother's blankets again.**_

 _ **If that foreboding time comes, if that dark and malicious presence makes itself known to be true, will Brother care? Will he cry?**_

 _ **The sad thing is, I still don't know."**_

...

Italy flipped the sixth page and saw a new date. He had reached the end of the entry. Germany had somehow been able to fit all those words perfectly into five pages. The last word ending exactly where the thin, faded line did as well.

"That was different," Italy said to himself, the book on his lap now. He was distracted by a blackbird outside of his large window for a moment. He blinked back to focus and got up from his seat. He stretched, taking his glass and walking towards his kitchen.

He set the book on the wooden table beside his chair and grabbed the thin glass now empty. He placed the glass in the empty sink and looked out his window in thought.

What should he do now? He could read the entire journal if he wanted to, but he didn't feel like crying himself to sleep.

He could ignore it and wait until another world meeting and just shove the responsibility to another nation, like say America. But that didn't leave a good taste in his mouth either. He had already tried and failed as well.

"What a lovely tree," Italy thought. He would have to cut that tree soon. It was getting too large.

Italy looked away and walked back to his large living room. He sat back down and contemplated on what to do next.

Another entry has been read. He wasn't any closer than before. Him being just as clueless as before.

Did he really think that just by reading a couple entries the answer would appear right in front of him? As if Germany would immediately tell him where he is, why he left, and why he barely smiles at him anymore. Just because he was the one feeling bad?

This wasn't a fairy tale, he desperately wished it was, but the shooting stars seem to always lie and fade before he could grasp, and it was time to face the reality.

He was going to have to work for this. With no Germany to hold his hand and tell him that, he did his best.

Because his best wasn't good enough anymore.

It wasn't enough and that left Italy having to swallow deeply.

"I'm not good enough right now. This, right now, what is happening, is accomplishing nothing. Me crying and frowning and ignoring isn't doing anything. I need to do something!"

Italy felt a surge of eagerness run through him. Just as Germany had felt one hundred and twenty-one years ago. He rarely ever felt like doing anything these days, handling country affairs was bothersome enough, but he felt like he had something to strive for. Something that mattered in his personal life.

He knew this before, a half-awake realization, but it wasn't until now, that he fully understood.

It was...exciting. It made Italy feel a pleasant buzz, one that years of various alcohols could never recreate.

 _"If I were Germany, where would I go? What would I do? What is the first thing I would worry about and get taken care of?"_ Italy thought, scrunching up his face in deep concentration.

 _"..."_

 _"..."_

 _"...This is hard,"_ Italy thought while relaxing his face.

 _"Okay. Think! Germany probably told Prussia that he was going to leave. Probably, maybe, there's a good chance. Germany itself seems to be doing fine, so obviously Ludwig is still alive."_

This brought a smile to Italy's face.

"Germany likes dogs. Like, really likes dogs. So maybe he went to a dog park...?" Italy shook his head immediately at that thought.

 _"No, that's not it. Okay, what would he do if he were trying to escape? He would...cover up his tracks...and, and not tell anyone! He would do shady business and probably wear a disguise."_

Italy stopped for a second. A disguise! He totally forgot to consider that! How are they supposed to find him amongst the million of other blonds?!

WAS HE EVEN BLONDE ANYMORE?!

Italy took a deep breath to calm himself. He gave a shaky smile and tried to look on the positives. Panicking now would do him no good, so he just continued to hypothesize.

"Don't panic, don't panic. He's probably still blonde and mean looking, and really into baking and singing like a girl. He's still Germany, and I bet I can still sense his awkwardness. Yeah! Yeah...so let me think."

 _"Germany would probably worry about his country first. Make sure that someone is running it and taking care of things."_ Italy paused.

 _"Wait, his government is also clueless about where he is. If that's true, then that means there isn't someone 'running' the show. WAIT."_

 _"From what Mexico said, that the other countries' governments have only been pressuring them to start looking for Germany a couple weeks ago instead of months ago. Then that must mean that Germany's bosses already knew of his absence and had someone doing the official stuff!"_

Italy felt proud. He was doing this all by himself and getting somewhere!

 _"Now who would Germany trust enough to run his government...Prussia. It has to be Prussia. No doubt. Germany trusts him a lot and it was at this meeting that he showed himself."_

Italy got up and quickly shuffled into his personal office.

It was a mess with thick paper toppling over each other, the mahogany desk barely being able to be seen with the myriad of books and confidential folders. The blinds were closed, the orange sun barely being able to shine through the thick pieces of plastic, and the leather seat was turned away from the large desk.

He turned on a lamp and quickly scattered through his horrid mess of papers to find his personal calendar. After shuffling a bit, he pulled out the paper calendar and skimmed quickly through his scratchy writing.

He flipped back a couple months. He ignored the bold circles and doodles of May and April until he found a chicken-scratched March.

There it was. March twenty-first. The last time he had seen Germany. In blotchy red ink, with a dried up pen he had thrown out days later, was scrawled the date he was supposed to "discuss" the plans of the Earth Summit.

He had seen Germany, he was snappy that day from what Italy had remembered, and they talked about the preparations. Well, Germany did. Italy had kept trying to go out and do anything other than sit down and talk stuffily.

Italy tried to remember any key things Germany had said that day.

All he could remember was: pay attention, we can't eat right now, I don't know if seals have penises, I don't know if ladybugs pee either, you just went to the bathroom, this is important, this is important, this is important — not important enough for Italy to remember.

Italy let out a sad sigh. He wished he would have listened to Germany and paid attention. Because now he's looking at his calendar for answers that won't appear.

Italy did the math in his head. It was now the nineteenth, meaning, that it has been almost exactly four months since Italy had last seen Germany. According to the other nations, this was around the same time slot.

Germany disappeared around late March, early April. What could have been done in that time? He has to be living somewhere. But where is the question. Specifically, what country.

Maybe an island? A small, uninhabited island? Italy doubted Germany could muster the grime and primal ways of living. He liked silence, not solitude.

Italy flipped to April. A meeting had been scheduled on the eleventh, but a flash flood had prevented him from going. He had then rescheduled for the twentieth but Germany wouldn't pick up on the fifteenth, the brazen beeping telling him coldly that the number was unavailable.

Germany had been gone by then so, Italy knew that the time slot of disappearance was between March twenty-second and April fifteenth. Italy's boss had started bothering him on July second, exactly two weeks before the world meeting with Prussia, so that meant it had been almost five weeks since the Rio Summit. That taking place from the third to the fourteenth.

All the dates were starting to confuse Italy so he shut his calendar and shoved it back in his drawer not caring that it crumbled and twisted in sharp angles-creasing in a way that would never go away.

Italy paced back in forth in his living room once he had strode quickly out of his office. The sun was setting once again, the blackbird gone and away, and the room was becoming darker.

"This would be so much easier if I knew what Germany was thinking. What he was feeling..."

Italy looked at the journal and thought about what he should do with it.

A dark thought ran through Italy.

Why was he bothering with all these minuscule and unimportant entries? They weren't bringing him closer to finding the truth.

The truth would lie in the very last entry...he could just check the last entry date, read that, then do some more math with the dates and find him! He could read what he was feeling, resolve that internal issue when he finds him and carry on with life happily. With Germany.

It would be faster, easier, and as America would say, "Work smarter, not harder."

There was nothing stopping him from doing so...There was no yelling England, or grinning America, or red-faced boss, or frowning Romano, or anyone in the beige colored room to tell him otherwise. It was just him, a lonely man, and the thoughts of an even lonelier man.

He picked up the journal in his pale hands and debated.

What if the very last entry was written almost one-hundred years ago? What if every entry after the one he had just read were just angsty retellings of everyday life? Complaining about things that would hold no real value in the greater scheme of things?

What if it was all just a waste of time.

Italy had to cancel that thought process. Germany wasn't like that.

Germany didn't have the time for that kind of thing, and it just wasn't how he resolved things. He would much rather break his punching bag and go for a run with his dogs than sit down and write down his woes like an old maid. In Italy's mind, all he could picture was Germany doing a comical amount of pushups then baking a bright, pink cake before bed. Nowhere in that vision did he see Germany writing. Well, writing something personal.

" _What about that little thingy Germany used to carry around during World War II? That book he carried religiously for a solid five months around me? What happened to that? Could that have been this? No...it's too small to be this one, but looking back at it, Germany was really into writing in that. He was always writing something. He would never let me see, but he suddenly stopped bringing it with him. Weird since he would write in it every day..."_ Italy thought only remembering Germany's concentrated face and a blurry image of another small book.

What had it been called? An observation journal? That was what Germany had said right?

Italy perked up. If Germany could write something for months, never missing a day, then this journal had to be consistently updated! Sure, fifty years was a big jump, but the logs were not abandoned.

The possibility of the last entry not being recent still ran high, though. Germany was a busy man and if not deemed important enough by him, he will completely forget and ignore something he doesn't want to face or does not care to. A personal journal was something Italy deemed important but for Germany to just disappear...

It seemed Italy didn't really know Germany either.

This made Italy pause and look at the journal more intensely. He flipped it over, the book still just as tightly clasped in his clammy hands and looked at the pages. Italy could see that there were still a good amount of new pages, the paper not yet being ruined by the weight of the ink or the dirt of the side of a hand. They weren't pristine white, that being just from age, but they were sharp and stiff.

Could it be possible that Germany has another journal? Could it be possible that he threw this one out and wrote in a new one?

Did Prussia give him this old, faulty book on purpose? It is not something Prussia is above of, he is at core a military strategist.

No. No. Italy didn't want to believe that. Prussia cares, and, and, he seemed just as heartbroken as any older brother would be. He looked just like someone needing help and asking for genuine aid.

 _Did he, though?_ He had a smile on his face. No, he was frowning. No, he wasn't making an expression at all. Or was he just not paying attention? Prussia was wide-eyed, yes, very expressive and — no, that isn't right either!

Prussia was blank-faced and his tone was...hopeful? Most definitely not. He was just as blank as his voice. Right? He can't remember...

Italy gulped down to calm down his shaking hands.

He had to have faith that this journal was the one — the one that would lead him to Ludwig. He had to have faith — the cold cross in his fingers was not soothing his warm-blooded fear, sadly — and hope that it was the right one, the right thing to do.

He should take a peek, though...just to make sure that the journal does end on a semi-recent date...

He flipped it heavily to one side and skimmed through the black inked words. He stopped when he saw a peek of the last entry date.

 **"** _ **28\. December 198 —"**_

He didn't dare to read any further.

...

Italy sat in his living room. The old clock already ringing that another hour has passed.

He had signed papers, called back his boss, organized folders in alphabetical order, watered his wilting plants, and had dipped his feet in the water to admire the darkening sky.

He had done everything he was supposed to. (He wanted his schedule to be clear for the next couple days, so he put extra effort to ignore the hand cramps and aching lower back to get the miscellaneous and tedious tasks of being a country done.)

His right leg couldn't stop shaking and vibrating, him being in dire need to do something, anything, and his pudgy cat had stopped nudging him for food when he had mechanically filled its bowl with food (his mind solely focused on one task, but being focused on nothing at the same time) about half an hour ago.

Now he was just looking at his ornate rug and dusty coffee table in thought. The house was silent, the washing machine in the background humming hypnotically, the small fan in the kitchen spinning to nothingness, and the sound of his foot tapping on the wooden floor to occupy the still house.

"...What were you thinking Germany? What is he thinking, does he feel like this too, just as — that's it...what he's thinking — I need to go to Germany's house! I'm sure to find something there!" Italy suddenly thought, breaking his usual deadline of thinking. He felt his brain reel with activity once again, thoughts coming in and out faster than he could acknowledge. He felt his eyes start to focus on the detail in the room, and he blinked. He shook his head in excitement, his mouth stretching into a large smile.

"Why didn't I think of it before!" Italy said while jumping out of his chair. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed his car keys out of an old ceramic bowl-the bowl shaking unevenly and making pitched clicks against the granite from the sudden force.

He shoved his arms through a random jacket by the door and shut the lights off habitually. He slammed the door behind him and fast-walked to his car muttering to himself.

"Prussia will be there, but he never said I couldn't visit. I could question him — he likes me, so it shouldn't be that hard. I could look and see if there's anything useful, like, like, I don't know. How exciting!"

Italy jammed the key into the lock on his car door and got in. He didn't check his mirrors, barely noticed himself clicking his seatbelt, and didn't wait for the car to warm up. He twisted the car keys harshly into the ignition and smiled giddily at the sudden roar of the engine.

He clutched the stick shift and jerked it to make the car go into reverse. The small car's tires screeched as he pulled out of his driveway and drove away, his yellow headlights being the only light to contrast the pitch-black night.

It was time to visit Germany's house.

 **...**

 **Lazy Romano —** _ **Northern Italians see the Southern Italians as dumb and lazy farmers that are too religious to know anything more. They see the southerners as somewhat lower than them, the divide being much like in the US's North and South**_. **_It's more of a cultural prejudice than actual hate._**

 **...**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! I wish I could thank the guest readers personally, but I can't. So, thank you so much for reviewing and taking your time to write such lovely comments! It inspired me to write this chapter :)**

 **I wrote this before the recent scanlation of HRE and Prussia. (Spoiler I guess?) It was a mistake from the editor, but this was a headcanon of mine, to begin with, so having that little strip official is kinda nice.**

 **Thank you for reading and any feedback is welcomed~!**


	5. A Black and White Memento Mori

Chapter Five — A Black and White Memento Mori

...

Driving at night always helped Italy calm down. With the wind in his hair and lack of cars, it was simply just fun to drive.

The initial eagerness was still present, but it had simmered down to a waiting excitement. It took a good twelve to thirteen hours to drive to Germany's house, even with the little, red needle shaking and looking as if were about to break. Somehow time seemed to pass faster for nations, those twelve hours feeling like three.

The radio was staticky, the poor antenna not knowing where to focus, and the night felt too quiet for Italy's taste. Where the radio failed to produce music and a provide a filler to the mellow night, Italy replaced with happy whistling and humming.

Italy took a right turn sharply and thanked the heavens that Switzerland was already asleep. Liechtenstein was usually the sweetest, little girl, but if you woke her, she can be quite grouchy. And if Liechtenstein is grouchy and disturbed, then Big Brother Switzerland has to intervene and it's already game over by then.

So, really, today was going great!

He had already passed the customary _Welcome to Germany_ sign a couple hours ago and felt giddiness when progressively the signs became more familiar. He knew Germany's house location by heart, but Italy is prone to get lost very easily.

He was getting close to Frankfurt, where Germany's current house is, and he almost crashed into another car because he was humming and tapping his steering wheel in happiness. Italy puffed out his cheeks as he heard a car horn being blasted at him as he perfectly veered from an upcoming car in front of him. He heard tires skid and multiple cars break to not crash and Italy just shook his head.

Germans were just so uptight about everything!

Italy took a left turn and whistled at the red light he just ran over. He took more turns, drove down more dark roads and soon enough the street lights and the cars became a rarity.

Italy shivered. He had forgotten that to get to Germany's house he needed to go through a dark and ominous row of trees. It was a single road, the concrete needing some work, and the trees engulfed you as you drove by. If it weren't for his headlights, he would be consumed by the darkness, never to found again.

It had been terrifying the first time — Italy being a clingy, sobbing mess by the time Germany had opened the door and side hugged him in confusion.

He remembered asking why Germany didn't live in his capital and why he had chosen such a remote and scary place to live, but Germany responded that his car had already been keyed too many times. He liked quietness, he had said.

Italy drove some more and saw a long and pebbled driveway up ahead. An extravagant thing to pull up to—Germany in all of his simplicity living in a house of royalty and irony.

He saw that a couple lights were still on and cheered. Prussia was still awake.

He swiftly parked on the donut-shaped driveway and twisted the keys sharply out. Everything of the car stopped and Italy climbed out slamming the plastic door shut. His keys clinked together as he shoved them in his pocket.

He strode up the long pathway to the door and rung the doorbell.

A minute. That's how long Italy waited before he jabbed the doorbell again, his pointer finger becoming a bit red from the pressure he was exerting on the poor button.

Thirty seconds.

He jabbed it again and waited. He shifted a bit and looked behind before turning back to the still closed door. The light was on, there were a couple rooms with lights still on from the outside, so there had to be someone home.

Ten seconds. He smashed it again. Pressing it three times for good measure.

A deep breath later, and he was pressing the plastic button madly. He kept clicking it, hearing the annoying, sharp sound resonate throughout the front door. His eyes flickered from the small button to the front door, fully expecting the door to widely open and accept him. He panted a bit as he kept pressing the smooth button—the sound becoming pitchy and annoying, not at all pleasant and homely as it was in the movies.

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding, dong —

 _"MEIN GOTT,_ STOP WITH THE DOORBELL ALREADY!" Prussia shouted as he opened the door to finally see who the hell was being so annoying at this hour.

"..."

"Hello, Prussia!" Italy greeted with a cute smile, his hand back to his side.

Prussia relaxed. "What are you doing here, Italy?"

"That's the thing, I'm on a mission right now! A very important mission. You see, when you left the conference, everyone was like, oooo, look at the book. No one wanted to read it, I didn't want to either, so they gave it to me! Crazy right? So there I was, reading the journal that you gave us, and I felt so scared. The other countries said, 'it had to be me,' but I don't really know why. Do you? Anyways —"

"Italy —"

"I read another entry, and I got really sad and scared. So, I tried giving it to America, but I didn't want him to have it! It was weird, I wanted to be the one to try and solve this mystery, so when I got back home — the meeting was canceled, America said so — I read another entry and that made me think." Italy paused to catch his long-winded breath. "I thought, why not go to Germany's house! You can help me! So here I am."

Prussia laughed that obnoxious laugh of his.

"Well, come on in. The awesome me can't have you freezing out here!"

Italy entered gratefully and looked around. His eyes softened.

It was the same. The couch was still white. The kitchen still to his left. The shoes were still placed neatly by the entrance—the clean scent he didn't know what of lingering. Nothing had changed. Italy breathed in happily, soaking in the scenery.

Italy followed Prussia to the living room. He sat down on the couch across from Prussia and placed his hands on his lap.

Prussia leaned back. "So, why did you decided to visit the awesome me? Not that you need a reason, but you haven't come to his house in months. Why now?"

"As I was saying before, I am currently the one with the journal. I read an entry and —"

Prussia placed his elbows on his knees. He wasn't leaning back on the couch anymore, his back being straight now, but his posture was still somewhat lax. What hid beneath those searching eyes was something not relaxed. "How far are you?"

Italy looked away from Prussia's piercing red eyes.

"Only three entries in," Italy responded back.

"Not very far then."

Italy shook his head, his fingers clenching his pant leg for a second before loosening.

"You still haven't answered my question. Why did you come here of all places? Especially at such a late hour? I could have been sleeping, you know. You're cute, but disturbing my sleep is not awesome," Prussia said confused.

Italy laughed nervously. How should he say it?

"Well, you see Prussia, when I was reading the third entry, I had a lot of questions. One of them being what Germany was feeling. I then realized I didn't know! I was reading his journal, sure, but I didn't know how he was feeling now. I could have skipped to the last entry and done it that way, but I didn't think that would be a good idea."

"I then thought, why not go to Germany's house? I could see more things and get more clues. So," Italy gestured with his hands, "boom! Here I am. I knew you would be here, but..."

"But what?" Prussia asked looking at the shifting Italy, his eyes never once leaving the others.

"I didn't think you would let me in," Italy continued softly, looking down.

"Why wouldn't I?" Prussia slouched back on the couch, his arms crossing over his chest instinctively.

"I don't know." Italy smiled. "It was silly of me! I got scared that you hated me or something. I thought you wouldn't want me to be looking through Germany's things since you know, you're his older brother and all." Italy perked up. "But I'm glad it was for nothing! You are such a nice person, Prussia."

Prussia smirked. "Of course, I am. I am the most awesome nation there is." He sighed softly getting up from the couch, Italy's eyes following his back interested.

"It's just weird how you were the one to break his heart and expect to find the pieces."

"W-What?"

Prussia turned back around. "Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. Kesesese!"

"If you say so," he said uncertainly.

Prussia yawned. "I was about to go to bed, but then you started ringing the doorbell like a goddamn madman, so I'm going to sleep now. I don't want to be a rude host, but you know where the spare bedroom is, right?"

Italy nodded. "I'm sorry to keep you up so late, but I got so excited that I just had to come immediately! I can find the spare room."

"Good, because I am tired as shit. Goodnight, Italy."

"Goodnight, Prussia!" Italy went up to Prussia and gave him a goodnight hug giggling a bit when he felt him stiffen and blush. So different, yet so alike they are.

Prussia pulled away after fifteen seconds. "You're such a cutie Italy, but geez. You'll see me tomorrow...," he said with cheeks heated. Italy didn't understand what was so embarrassing but has learned to ignore it with the German brothers.

They were kind of weird.

Prussia turned around, embarrassment forgotten and swept under the rug, and starting walking towards the hallway, rubbing his head and yawning. Prussia's soft patters on the pristine tile faded away until there was stillness.

Well, things turned out much better than he had planned! Sure, Prussia had been surprisingly cold only a few seconds ago, but it seems that Prussia had no grudge against him. Prussia seemed to be doing fine as well. If you ignored the darker undertones below his eyes and flatter hair.

Italy soaked in the living room. His memories sprang back to life. So many things happening in that monochromatic living room. He walked over to the couch and ran his fingers lightly on it.

It felt cold, just as all leather does. He looked at the detailing of the armrest before flickering his eyes to the glass coffee table.

Still as blank as before. It needed something. Maybe some flowers?

Italy smiled and shook his head. He could see the ghost of Japan — him and his pristine white uniform, blending in with the living room and looking much more like he belonged— sharpening his sword and Germany reading a manual in the shared comfortable silence. One that seemed only they could share.

He turned to the kitchen and thought about the words Prussia had just said. Those words flew out of his head for immediate concern as he peered through an open cabinet he so abruptly opened.

His basil leaves were still there. In a small jar, there they sat. He blinked.

He opened another cabinet.

His pasta noodles were neatly lined up as well. The ones he would use when he wanted a quick snack and didn't feel like going through the rigorous process of hand making the noodles.

Italy rushed to open the large, bottom cabinet where the spare pots and pans were stored and saw his large noodle pot. The one he had always used to make dishes at Germany's house. He didn't throw it away...

He took it out, being mindful to not make a lot of loud noises, the loud clinking of metal hitting one another not helping much, and checked it.

It was clean, pristinely so.

The burn marks were still there — the brown, ugly rust stains still ringing around the bottom from years of use. The metal looked scraped and damaged, no doubt from dropping it so many times. The handles were weak and the plastic around the handles was cut into two—the user having to be careful where they placed their palms.

He touched the spot in affection and melancholy.

"You said you hated this pot. You said it was old and that you were going to throw it out as soon as I was out your hair. It is old, but..." Italy whispered. He saw his distorted reflection through the muddy steel.

"But you didn't throw it out. You kept it."

...

Italy turned off the living room lights and kitchen lights before going to Germany's room. It was the last stop before heading to bed.

He didn't like the dark. He felt like something was watching him. Something that would look at him but then leave. He blamed it on the nostalgia.

Italy opened Germany's door lightly — the scene playing out the same way it had almost seventy years ago — but this time there is no sleeping Germany on the bed. The bed is made and there is not a single thing out of place in the room. He closed the door behind him and flickered on the light.

He stood there for a second, truly admiring Germany's room before letting his feet drag him to memory lane. He felt out of place and sneaky. He had to remember that Germany wasn't here, but he still felt that deep warning of a scolding coming soon. He just had to turn his head around and there Germany would be with a look of annoyance.

He looked at the old dresser, the clean mirror reflecting almost the whole room, the lonely little lamp, and the German titled books on the bookshelf.

Every shelf was filled with books, not one gap in sight. He hummed as he fingered through the binds absentmindedly. His eyes stopped at one thick book.

Brothers Grimm.

Italy didn't think Germany would enjoy fairy tales, but Germany had been a child once. It was hard to imagine—even with the words and dates as proof—Germany as anything but a man. He had always been muscular and tall. His chin defined and sharp, the high cheekbones helping achieve the look of too much maturity.

Italy went back to the dresser and hesitantly opened a cabinet partially.

Nothing happened. A couple seconds later Italy yanked the cabinet open.

His eyes scanned the contents greedily.

A lighter. A pack of cigarettes not at all current. It was old and the edges around the box looked beaten up. The corners were rounded and the font on the box screamed the sixties. Italy saw a black comb next. A gun and some mints were next to the comb.

Italy picked up the gun and tossed it between his hands. It felt heavy—much heavier than anything he could buy in a store currently. He checked to see if there were any bullets and to his surprise there were only two left. He popped the cartridge back and placed the gun back—the gun making a loud thumping noise against the thin wood.

He saw a badge (for what, he didn't know) and some pens scattered around. He was about to close the drawer and move on, but he saw a curled up piece of paper hiding underneath a thick bible. Curious, he pushed the bible upward to retrieve the piece of paper.

Except, it wasn't a piece of paper. It was a photo.

The photograph was old and very fragile. The edges were burnt and it looked as if it had been through a flood — if the blue, blotchy stains and crinkling were anything to go by. He held it with both hands and made sure not to touch the picture with his fingers—his fingers containing too much oil and clumsiness to be trusted.

He held it from the back, the picture curving upwards a bit, and the little girl's smiling face glared a bit in the light.

The little girl in the photo was smiling a melancholic smile. Not a happy smile, but not a sad one either.

Judging from the hue of the black, her hair must have been a light pigment. Probably a dark blonde. She wore a short colored dress (a short dress at the time) that rose a little bit above her bony knees. She adorned an old jacket around her thin frame and Italy could see the blood gashes dipping into her frilly, white socks.

Her left cheek had a deep cut. A glass wound from the looks of it. Despite having band-aids on her knees, chopped short hair, and an unattractive cut on her plump cheek, she still stood firmly and tried to smile for the camera.

The girl couldn't be any older than seven. The buildings were destroyed behind her, the once proud brick structures reduced to mere ashes and pebbles. Other men in overalls walked behind her distracted, but with her sad gaze and soft dimples, she was easily the center of attention to the horror behind her.

The dark, clashing blacks and grays didn't matter, the city being utterly destroyed didn't matter because Italy needed to know who this girl was and why she was hidden underneath a bible.

Italy flipped the picture over and read Germany's shaky handwriting.

 _"I'm sorry, Irene. Please forgive me."_

Italy's heart stopped for a moment.

Who is Irene? Was that the little girl in the photo? Or is Germany talking to someone else?

Italy flipped the picture back over and perused the photograph.

The picture was obviously from World War II, the only glaring evidence being the style in dress and hair.

So many places had been bombed during World War II, it was a headache to even try to remember every bombing at what time and year of every city. He could barely remember the bombings in his country — the smoke, the sirens, the screaming, the explosions, him doing everything to just forget — let alone Germany's.

He studied the girl closer and tried to maybe pinpoint the city. There was no date anywhere, and the smiling girl was starting to make his nerves fray. He gave up and decided that it had to be late into the war. Maybe 1944.

"Who said it even had to be during the war?" Italy thought while looking at the picture closely.

Italy had just assumed that it was during the war because of the injuries, but reconstruction took years, so really, it could be anywhere from 1939 to late fifties.

Italy lowered the picture. He took one last long look before carefully sliding it into his coat pocket. He was going to ask Prussia about it tomorrow morning.

It opened another drawer and saw that it was empty. He felt disappointment but closed it and moved onto another one.

He opened two more empty drawers.

The third one he opened contained a small, thick contact book.

Italy's eyes widened with glee. He grabbed the book and flipped through. Names littered the alphabetical tabs and numbers were scrawled out as expected. Some names were heavily crossed out and many had a little side note of dead.

He flipped through, him not knowing any of the names of course, and just looked in awe at the different variations of numbers and letters. He flipped another clump of pages, never really only flipping one, and scanned the contents quickly.

"Lydia Schwartz — pharmacist: only call in dire need."

This contact stuck out. It was the only one written in English.

Italy rummaged around, opening drawers quickly in and out, the sound of wood scraping metal prominent with his rash movements. He grabbed the nearest pen and looked for some paper. He saw a pack of sticky notes earlier and he grabbed one from another opened drawer.

He jotted the number down and placed it in his other coat pocket—him not wanting to ruin the picture any more than it already was from the adhesion.

He flipped some more, the English words becoming more common now, and stopped when he got to the end. He closed the book and placed it back in its place in the drawer. He shut tight all the drawers and looked around the room for anything else useful.

He moved to the closet and it not expecting to find anything useful. He opened the creaky doors—those old and wise doors—and found something shocking, something like—

Nothing. As expected.

Italy let out a disappointed whine. He really thought there would some kind of hidden door or secret latch to find, or something. Or maybe better yet, the chest Prussia warned him against.

The house was old, there had to be some kind of safety room or dark, secret hallway somewhere.

But if Italy was up to go through that cold and eerie hallway (if found) was the real question.

Italy gravitated back to the bookshelf and pulled out a random book and started reading.

He wasn't reading it—his eyes just moved back and forth as if he knew what he was being told through those no doubt powerful, black inked words.

He noticed something about the gap he just created after skimming five pages. The slanting book on the bookshelf falling from the lack of support tried to conceal something. He tossed the book onto the bed (the floor from the ungracious sound) and moved closer to inspect.

He moved the leaning book. He then moved some more. And more and more and more until almost the entire shelf had been wiped clean. He saw black.

The walls were white.

This made Italy excited. "What if there is something after all!" Italy thought while rushing to the end of the bookshelf and craning his head back and forth frantically. He didn't see some kind of opening or edge to move the heavy structure.

Italy moved back to face the bookshelf directly. His long-sleeved arm reached through the gap in the bookshelf, peeking Italy's interest as why there was not a back to support the books from falling behind, even with the wall there. He placed his palm flat on the cool wall.

It wasn't a wall, it was something cold and metallic.

Italy almost literally exploded with excitement.

"Holy sweet President Roosevelt — there is something there!" Italy made a quick finger gun, "Vargas. Feliciano Vargas. Best detective of all time. Pow!" Italy laughed in a good mood before nodding to himself to get back on task.

He giggled sliding some more books over. It was so exciting!

He concluded that whatever the bookshelf was concealing was quite large—larger than one row's worth of books at least.

He cleared out another row of books carefully and unveiled another row of black. The bookshelf now only having two rows of books, the decor now a little easier to move.

Italy rolled up his sleeves and eyed the bookshelf up and down. He got to the side of one of the bookshelf and pushed.

His feet slid on the slippery floor, his shoes making squeaks and being totally useless for anything other than aesthetic appeal, and his face turned red from all the force he was giving to the unmoving wood.

He pushed again and had the same results, him almost falling and hitting his nose on the ground because he had tried pushing so hard.

He placed his hand on the side of the shelf and heaved.

" _So...heavy...no wonder Germany has those rippling muscles...this is like trying to move two Russias!"_ Italy thought looking up through his long bangs.

He slid down the side of the bookshelf and felt his bottom hit the hard tile painfully. He whimpered a bit, he was very lean after all, and rested his head back on the wood gently, making sure to not hurt his head.

He caught his breath and sat there for a good five minutes extra than needed then lethargically stood back up again.

He looked at the offending piece of wood determinedly and began to push the bookshelf with all his might. He gripped his feet onto the ground and ducked his head down as felt the bookshelf move slowly, ever so slowly at the awkward angle he was pushing it.

Eventually, a miniature door appeared.

Italy stopped pushing and wiped some sweat off of his brow. He smiled proudly and looked at how small the entrance really was. It could fit a human if you tried hard enough — angled him or her just right — but it was by no means practical.

He tugged at the little dip that was the handle and felt his arms burn as they went through more work to open the slightly heavy door.

Italy's eyes lit up with curiosity, glee, proudness, eagerness, excitement, trepidation—

"This has to be some kind of joke."

Italy bit his lip. He wanted to open it (it took all his willpower to not rip it open) and look deep inside.

Italy opened the chest. He couldn't contain his curiosity.

He crouched down on the ground, eye level of the large box. His fingers felt the cool metal sink into his soft, fleshy fingers as he unlocked the rectangular chest. His lanky arms pushed the heavy, thick lid upwards, this action sending dust into his throat. He coughed but did not let go of the top.

The hinges creaked and Italy sneezed twice. He rubbed his nose and looked at the content inside.

Letters.

Lots, and lots, and lots of letters. Letters that looked old and new. The paper size varying and the inks differing with age. It was daunting—all those pages stacked upon each other, crossing over and making the box heavy with burden.

Italy picked up a letter from the very top in fascination. The papers only reached up to mid chest, but for such a large crate to be filled to such an extent was just ludicrous. Was Germany some kind of hoarder?

Italy looked to his right, feeling that he was being watched again. When he turned his head, it was gone. He shook his head and tried to not to whimper. Germany's house is just...

Italy saw that there were fold marks, the paper being folded into a precise set of three.

 _ **1967**_

 _ **"West,**_

 _ **how's it been? It's been awhile since I've last written to you. That asshole Russia has been trying to stop me from sending you letters. Surprisingly, Belarus helped me mail this to you. I never know what that girl is thinking...**_

 _ **You don't have to worry about me. That crazy bastard can beat me up, but he can't break my awesome spirit and will! I'm goddamn Prussia!**_

 _ **...I feel kinda bad for the guy. Even his own family hates him. Good thing you're not like that. You are so cute~**_

 _ **But seriously Luddy, you don't have to worry about me. I will pull through and damn it, I am going to destroy that wall that separates us one day. I still need to have a good talk with Italy for ya.**_

 _ **You know, I think Russia and America have steamy hate sex. They glare at each other, fight, but then the next thing you know, they are laughing at some kind of twisted, dark inside joke only they have. On those days, Russia is extra cruel.**_

 _ **But that's enough about me. How are you holding up? I know those assholes of the Allies did some pretty horrible stuff. The last thing you needed was a famine. Your body is thin enough—I just hope you're eating okay now. If not, I swear to God West...**_

 _ **I asked Russia if he had anything to relieve burn marks and scars for you, but he just smiled and said why would anyone want to get rid of that. That crazy bastard—he thinks those scars and lacerations you got are okay—that they are some kind of art.**_

 _ **You told me they are fading away, but I can't help but worry. It wasn't long ago that you could start walking without a crutch.**_

 _ **So, I guess I don't have anything for that.**_

 _ **What else to tell you? I don't have much exciting news to tell you. It's pretty boring here. All I do is work and that's not awesome.**_

 _ **I don't know what else to say, so I guess I'll just say this. I know you are tired of me saying this, but West. You gotta stay strong. You gotta forget about Italy. You gotta remember that you weren't the one at fault, okay?**_

 _ **So please, stop beating yourself up. I don't blame him and I know you don't either. It was just your luck things had to turn out that way, huh?**_

 _ **From The Awesome Prussia."**_

Burn marks? Scars? What?

Italy lowered the paper, the page wilting a bit downward. He ignored the part of Germany ignoring him and reread the paragraph about the burn wounds.

Italy really did think Germany was treated far too harshly by the Allied Powers. No matter what America said, that was no act of heroism.

It had been just cruel.

He hadn't been there to see Germany personally, but he knew that Germany was not in its best shape after the war.

Like the things mentioned in the letter, many Germans suffered more from the aftereffects than the war itself. Fertile farmland being sold to Russia and Poland, emigration being closed off, America and Canada purposely not sending food supplies—even when it was obvious that other countries were.

It must have driven Germany mad. The Allied Powers controlling him so much. His precious industry had been stripped away from him and his name soiled by print.

Poor Germany. His need for creating—destroying and rebuilding—had been taken away from him.

Italy let out a sad sigh. It had just been so awful. It was all just a big blur of dark grays and light blacks. The victors writing the history books and the loser wallowing in debt and shame. Both sides tasting a bitterness that a title could not seem to make better.

Italy sat the paper to his right. He looked back inside and chose another random letter.

 _ **09\. December 1952**_

 _ **"Dear Prussia,**_

 _ **I hope that you are doing well. I miss you. I really wish this wall had never been built, but my opinion doesn't matter right now. Please take care of yourself, you do tend to speak before you think.**_

 _ **I wish I could do something about Russia forcing my people into those camps of his. The war is over, so why is he still dragging this on?**_

 _ **I am just so tired of this. I don't want to be hungry anymore, or choose a side, or go to these World Meetings.**_

 _ **I do not speak in the meetings. The glaring is getting to me. Luckily, Italy hasn't been latching onto me in these meetings. I think he's scared of what I look like now. I wouldn't blame him. Even I can't recognize who I am when I look in the mirror.**_

 _ **I want something good to happen for once. The war is over, yes, but it still feels like I'm being punished. As if I'm still back in 1943.**_

 _ **You tell me not to be so hard on myself, but it's hard not to when I am constantly reminded of it. I feel like I shouldn't forget. I do deserve this after all.**_

 _ **My legs have been hurting as well. I have these sporadic periods of times where my legs start to feel numb then burst into pain. They go away eventually. I have spoken with Ulrich about this, but he tells me that these are just side effects and will go away within the next twenty years—the remediation really depending on the state of the country.**_

 _ **So, really, even he doesn't know.**_

 _ **He thinks that it may be linked to you somehow. I don't how or why, but he theorizes that your people are slowing down my recovery. I do not believe this. I do not believe that is the full explanation because it makes no logical sense.**_

 _ **I will do my best to be positive.**_

 _ **From Germany."**_

What in the —?

What was going on here? Italy didn't have that dramatic of side effects. He had been struck with a nasty fever for a couple years, his shaky democracy not doing so well from America's insistence, but nothing like a crippled leg!

This made Italy feel even worse. He really wanted to cry now.

If anything, Italy benefited from the war. He received aid. Jobs were being created, infrastructure was being built rapidly, and interregional migration was buzzing around the whole country like a busy bee.

The mass production of cars and televisions were making his people content. (And somewhat superficial.)

Italy had his fair share of problems of course, as any nation does, but it was never to the extent as Germany. He thought the Allies tried helping Germany...he thought America, and England, and France, and China (maybe not Russia) would give sympathy to Germany — they were friends, right? They wouldn't be that mean, right?

Italy's stomach twisted into a sick knot.

A white eyepatch — gauzes underneath to conceal the bloodied, blue eye. A red-stained medical tape over your loose hair—the bangs looking jagged and much too long. A neutral expression you wore—your posture one of a relieved (wanting) defeat. Your jacket—your much too large jacket for the bony figure you cannot hide. Silent words from your stitched lips.

Germany didn't stand with dignity that day. He looked exhausted, detached. His visible eye dead. He couldn't stand up properly, his tired arms numbing from having to rely on the badly cushioned crutches.

Italy can't recall ever meeting Germany's eyes that day. His own eyesight to blurred by tears and crushing guilt. He didn't hear Germany speak, him only nodding and wincing to pick up the pen to sign on the dark, bold line.

What a cruel day that had been. Germany sobbing, crumbling to the ground trying to reach out to his equally teary-eyed brother. Their eyes were frantic and wild. A bond shared that Italy could never hope to understand.

There was screaming, mainly from Prussia as Germany's voice seemed dried and hoarse, and a lot of turning heads.

What a shame it had been, Prussia's hand on Germany's back to ease his movements in the beginning only for Germany to fall with wide eyes and parted lips in the end.

Italy felt tears running down his cheeks and he quickly wiped them off with his sleeve. He put the paper down and clutched his cheeks trying to stop the bitter tears.

He wiped his eyes once more and moved to place the letters back in their place. He didn't want to read anymore.

He placed the papers gently on top of the pile and closed the lid. He heard the familiar locking sound and put his hands on his knees to help himself get up.

His eyes were dried now and he closed the door sharply. He didn't bother with trying to conceal the room again by moving the shelf and instead just put the book back silently, his back straining a bit from the crouching.

He walked out of the room and headed back to the guest room. The one he rarely ever used when in the house.

His soft footsteps echoed through the lit hallway, the minimalist paintings on the wall casting dark shadows from the artificial lighting — a bright, white glowing light that did not illuminate as much as one would expect.

He finally found the room and turned the handle. The door didn't squeak, not at all like his old doors, and opened quite smoothly.

He went over to the stiff bed and sat on the edge. He wasn't tired and didn't feel like going to bed just yet.

He pulled out the photo again and examined the black and white image in front of him.

He tilted his head to the side and wondered how he didn't notice the little girl wearing a thick cross before.

It wasn't ornate or luxurious but it was proudly displayed. Brought to full attention, even if it was small and easy to ignore.

He scanned the photograph again searching for anything that he missed before.

He didn't find anything relatively noteworthy other than she had an oddly symmetrical face, thus making her very pretty. She had high cheekbones and no doubt grew to be a real beauty.

He put the photograph on the table beside the bed and dug out the number written on the sticky note with curly letters.

He clutched the paper. Tomorrow morning. He was going to call this number.

...

"Good morning, Ita. Did you sleep okay?" Prussia asked behind the stove, moving some sausage on the hot pan.

Italy yawned lazily and put his head down on his folded arms. "I slept okay. I wish I could sleep in more."

Prussia laughed. "Don't I know that feeling! I have to go to this unawesome meeting soon and have to leave in a few."

Italy opened one eye and looked at the stove clock.

Seven ten. Surely a meeting wouldn't be held so early in the morning. But then again, this was a German meeting.

"Here ya go."

Italy's face felt a sudden warmness radiate and his nose becomes invaded with a strong smell of meat. He opened his eyes and saw a shiny, white plate sit in front of him.

He sat up and eyed the wurst and bread rolls warily. His stomach squelched in disagreement.

He pushed the plate away whining. His curl dropped a bit and his stomach growled.

"German breakfast makes my stomach feel all funny. I don't want this crappy food."

"Hey! Wurst is good for the soul." Prussia then stabbed one, some grease leaking out (making Italy almost throw up in his mouth) and waved it dangerously close to Italy's face.

"Nooo, I don't want to die from food poisoning!" Italy wailed.

Prussia rolled his eyes and shoved the wurst in his mouth. He chewed it quietly watching Italy calm down and at least reach out for the coffee in front of him.

He sipped it and let out a happy hum, little floating flowers starting to surround him.

He put the coffee mug down and looked pensive for a minute. Prussia didn't say much already knowing that Italy was going to ask him something.

Italy dug around in his pants and pulled out the photograph from the night before.

"Hey, do you know who this is?" Italy asked sliding the photo closer to Prussia.

Prussia took the photo in his left hand, the other drinking the coffee. His eyes softened.

"I don't."

Italy looked down at his mug in disappointment.

"Well, not fully at least. I'm not one hundred percent sure what she means to West but I have a pretty good idea."

"Really! Who is she? Who is Irene? Why was she hidden underneath a bible? Why has Germany never talked about her? Is she still alive? Did you know her? Do you know when this was taken?"

Prussia sat his mug down, the mug making a loud clink noise. He held the photograph with both hands now and looked at the picture while speaking to Italy.

"I'm not too sure who Irene is, but my hunch is that it's the girl shown here. I don't know how you were able to find this so easily, I've only seen this twice. But then again, I know better than to go snooping in West's room. I've found some kinky shit in there that I don't want to see again..."

Italy nodded in understanding. He knew all too well of the man's...more freaky side.

"I don't think West wants to talk about this. Ever. He can barely tell me," Prussia shook his head setting the photo down. He took another bite of his breakfast, the butter on the hot bread dripping a bit.

"As for when this was taken, I would say...around 1945? Somewhere in that range."

Just as Italy had thought.

"Why does Germany not want to talk about it?" Italy asked swirling his coffee with the spoon he had been given.

"Beats me. I didn't see what was so special about this girl. He had met and seen many others just like her die or suddenly disappear. It didn't make one damn sense," Prussia paused, "I shouldn't have called him a crybaby. I shouldn't have teased him for crying so much when he found the picture."

"Found? How did he get this?"

"The picture is from the mid 40's, but it wasn't until 1962 that he actually knew of it. It had been mailed to him with a note saying, 'Rosemarie would have wanted you to see her.' Those cowards. If there had been a return address, they wouldn't have been spared from my awesome paintball gun for making West cry like that!"

"Wait, wait. Germany cried when he saw this?" Italy said stopping his rhythmic motions of swirling the coffee.

"I honestly can't say since I wasn't there, but knowing West, yes. Most definitely. I know my little bro. He saw a random letter in his mailbox, grew suspicious, came back inside and opened it anyway, looked at the picture in shock and probably shook his head and covered his mouth."

"Sounds really sad. This is like some T.V. soap opera..."

"Yeah, well, I never said West was a happy person to begin with. You being the only one who could really bring a smile out of him. I can, since I'm awesome, but I think it's more special when it comes to you." Prussia said getting up from the small table. He put his plate in the sink and looked back to Italy.

"Are you going to eat that?"

"Huh? Oh, no."

"Suit yourself. More for me!"

Prussia sat back down and quickly snatched the plate from Italy.

"Why did you say it was more special from me? Japan can make Germany smile! And —"

Wow. Germany didn't have a lot of friends, did he.

Prussia laughed loudly startling Italy. "Are you kidding me? Italy you can't be this dense, can you? Please tell me you're joking!" Prussia said wiping a tear out of his eye.

"..."

Prussia slouched a bit. "Oh my God, you're not joking."

"What? What!"

Prussia pointed at Italy with his fork. "How can you not know? It's so damn obvious."

"I'm obvious? Obvious about what?" Italy asked hurriedly, leaning forward from his chair.

"Yep."

"What, what, what!" Italy leaned closer.

"That West loves you Italy," Prussia said taking another sip of the lukewarm coffee.

Italy sat back down in his seat and let out a relieved sound. "Oh, that. I thought it was something important. Don't worry, I love Germany too!"

"What do you mean that wasn't something important?" Prussia asked coldly, all smiles vanishing.

Italy shook a bit. Italy gave out a panicked smile and placed his rapidly waving hands in front of him in hopes that he could wave off the tense air.

"W-Well, I just thought th-that was a normal thing, you know? It's not a big-big deal. I love Germany too—as a friend! A very good friend, so really. No need to look so scary! No need to hurt me!"

"As a friend you say?" Prussia said the chilly voice thawing.

"Yes! Yes! Only as a friend," Italy said quickly.

"What a shame," Prussia said stabbing his fork back down.

"What?"

Prussia sighed. "Forget about it."

"If you say so," Italy replied back confused.

There was no talking for a couple minutes. The only sound echoing through the kitchen being the soft chirps of bird and sipping from the oblivious Italy.

"So about the picture..." Italy said after sipping his drink.

"What about it?"

"Do you know anything more?"

Prussia paused.

"I know that West hates talking about. He will get all stiff and completely ignore you when you try to interrogate him. He gets really snappy and irritated if you bug him a lot about it, I would know. I've tried a lot of times. Not awesome."

"That just sounds like Germany being Germany."

Prussia shook his head and pushed away his plate, the plate being clean from food.

"Naw, believe me, this was a different kind of snappy and irritated. Something really personal, as if he's trying to protect something really valuable to him. All I've gotten out of him is that whoever this girl—whatever this girl means to West—was a mistake."

Italy gasped.

"Did Germany really say that?" Italy asked shocked, eyes wide.

"Yep. He sure did," Prussia glanced back down at the picture, "I was just as surprised as you are. I mean, I thought, shit. This can't be West we're talking about here. Right?"

Prussia looked at Italy's vulnerable face. "But I swear to you Italy, on my awesome code of honor, that he said that. He said that this girl was a mistake and I'm still trying to piece the pieces together too."

Italy soaked this in.

"I guess I shouldn't be too shocked. He has threatened to gas me before. And he does choke me. But those were just playful. He didn't mean them! So, maybe he didn't mean that? From Prussia's serious face, I'm guessing that he did mean them. That's just so un-Germany like. Why would he say such a cruel thing!"

"Hey, Prussia you've read the entire journal, right?" Italy asked slowly, his mind elsewhere.

"Yeah?" Prussia replied back trying to see where Italy was going with this.

"Then...what do you mean you're still trying to fill the pieces back together? Doesn't Germany tell you in the little book thingy? That would seem important to me to write down."

Prussia looked away from Italy's stare. "I think that's something you'll have to read for yourself Italy. I can't answer that."

Italy threw his hands up in the air frustrated. This action startled Prussia, making him direct his gaze back to Italy.

"What! You have to be kidding me! Can you pleeease just tell me? The suspense is killing me and you knowhowIgetwithsuspense!" Italy pleaded.

Prussia shook his head. "No can do Italy. How I read the book is very different than how you read the book. Plus with those letters you read last night, I bet you have a different opinion than me."

Prussia got up and flicked his watch. He cursed and grabbed his suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair in a hurry. He put his plate and mug in the sink and moved quickly out of the kitchen.

"Shit, I gotta go Italy. Do whatever you want, just don't burn the house down or create a mess."

Italy scrambled out of his chair, the chair making a deep scratchy sound as it was pushed, and quickly trotted after Prussia trying to catch up to Prussia's long strides and distracted fiddling with the cuffs.

He paced behind Prussia, getting in front of him to ask him a desperate question.

"But — But Prussia! I still have more questions! You never told me who you thought she was—you said you had a pretty good idea of who she was!"

Prussia sidestepped Italy and grabbed the umbrella leaning on the corner of the wall by the door. He smiled.

"I think you can figure it out." He opened the door—the bright sun making him look unnaturally pale instead of golden. "You're a smart kid." He winked and shut the door behind him, the quick action rattling the glass on the thick, wooden door violently. Italy saw Prussia walking to his car and getting in through the tall side glass by the door.

Italy deflated and dragged his feet back to the kitchen. He put his mug in the sink as well and moved to get some pots and ready for some pasta. The cheap kind will have to do for now, but his mind wasn't on the habitual turning of the knob on the stove.

Italy now knew these things: Irene was the girl in the photo, Irene was a Christian, the photograph was sent to Germany by an anonymous person in 1962—Prussia not being present when Germany first go this, the picture had been somewhere of easy access—meaning that Germany must have looked at this particular photo a lot, it was taken in 1945 and that Germany considered her a mistake.

A mistake.

Mistake /məˈstāk/

N. 1. An error or fault resulting from defective judgment, deficient knowledge, or carelessness. 2. A misconception or misunderstanding

A mistake.

That was what the dictionary said, but looking at the yellow, old paper didn't make Germany's meaning any clearer.

A mistake as in meeting her? Or as in a mistake as in caring for her? Did she harm Germany? Did she kill somebody important? Or did she die and Ludwig felt grievance for never getting to know her better? A spy maybe?

It was all so confusing and Italy was beginning to feel like maybe coming to Germany's house had been a bad idea. He was getting more questions than answers.

"And I thought the journal was bad. This is so much worse!" Italy thought walking back to Germany's room.

He quickly opened the room and noticed how different it looks in the daytime. It looks like some average bedroom. A bedroom that didn't hold tears or fears or compiled sadness. It looked quaint with the sun beaming through, Italy being able to see the dust floating around the curtains.

He gravitated to sit on Germany's bed.

It dipped a bit as he sat on the edge and Italy looked at the bookshelf again. Should he read some more letters?

Italy kept looking at the spines in internal conflict until he realized that he hadn't read an entry today.

Italy leaped up from his place, the blanket now having a slight crevice with wrinkles fanning. An imperfection to the picturesque room.

He raced to his room and brought the journal back to Germany's room.

Italy sat giddily down at the at the edge of the bed again, the bed creaking a bit from Italy's excited jumping.

"It's like I'm actually Germany. I'm reading his journal as if I were actually him—as if I were Ludwig from all those years ago. Cool~!"

Italy made himself comfortable and opened to the most current entry.

 _ **" 1915,"**_

Italy felt his stomach drop. World War One already?

 _ **"I knew it. I just knew it. One shot and the whole continent is in an uproar. Why do Austria and Hungary and Serbia have to be so difficult?**_

 _ **I cannot believe it. There's that traitor Italy for one thing. I met him back in 1882 when our Alliance was formed. He had seemed a lot angrier and moodier than I expected—glaring at me and insulting me despite being on the same side.**_

 _ **That had been nothing of what I had assumed he would be like, but then again, Italy had a look on his face that seemed as if he couldn't look at me straight in the eye either. From fear, shyness—I do not know nor care."**_

Italy had to pause and wrack his memory of meeting Germany back in 1882. He didn't meet Germany in 1882. He would have definitely remembered something like that. He would have remembered his slicked-back hair and too serious blue eyes.

From what Italy can pick up, it was Romano who went in his place instead. Why Austria and Hungary didn't call him out on it, he doesn't know either. Maybe Austria had a heart underneath that shrill voice and ironed clothing?

Italy hadn't been prepared to see what the country above him looked liked, acted like, talked liked. France, with his frizzled hair and bandaged cheek, had told him the terrible news, ending the rumors and becoming a bitter fact. He didn't want to go so he had pleaded Romano to go in his place.

Romano agreed. "Those bastards better not make me regret this—be glad I like you this damn much Feliciano."

 _ **"At first, I was very happy about this war. My spirits were high and my training was finally being put to good use. I felt good. I am thankful for what Brother taught me, but it seemed as if it wasn't enough.**_

 _ **My government is a mess. I do not like to admit this, but I shouldn't have joined this war. It stings, the comments the other nations say—the words of truth they speak with their vile, sharp tongues.**_

 _ **I am not prepared for this war. Joining was such a mistake. I should have opted out when I could have.**_

 _ **But I simply couldn't refuse an alliance. I simply cannot ignore the bond I signed over to Italy and Austria-Hungary. It was our pact.**_

 _ **Had been.**_

 _ **Italy declared war on me on the twenty-sixth of April, choosing to betray us to join the Triple Entente — France, England, and Russia."**_

Italy's lips quivered. He put the book down and walked towards the dresser, knowing there would be plenty of black pens there. He opened one and grabbed the first ink pen he could find.

He walked back to the book on the bed and wrote a little note, having to be careful as the bed wasn't an ideal flat surface.

 _"I'm sorry Germany! Please don't be mad, England lied to me! That jerk promised me things I wanted, but everything turned out okay in the end, right? Please, don't be mad ):" —_ Feliciano

Italy backed away and smiled at the little heart he put by his name. He was able to fit his message neatly and small enough to not disturb the original text, but still be legible. It was hard work! He smiled and put the cap on the pen back, placing the thin pen almost out of ink on the table in front of him absentmindedly.

 _ **"I cannot say I am surprised. Italy didn't seem to fond me and seemed as if the type to retreat and betray others in the pursuit of an easier route. The lesser men who do not like work or failure. Making them failures.**_

 _ **And weaklings."**_

Ouch.

 _ **"Though, looking at it now, I cannot blame him all that much. I am constantly hungry, my food supplies being cut off by those bastards France and Britain.**_

 _ **Then there is my genius bureaucracy. In my desperate attempt for food, for anything to fill my aching stomach—a shared hunger I know—they decided to slaughter five million of my pigs.**_

 _ **I saw their blood spray everywhere. Their heads being chopped off, gutted, the rotten odor of death in the air and the all too familiar atmosphere of despair and raw human savagery to scavenge a way to survive. It sent me back to the time when I had just written my first entry.**_

 _ **Back when I didn't know that the men were killing each other for past grudges. I've grown soft, the scent used to not bother me—it bothering me more when it wasn't in the air.**_

 _ **It sent back painful memories, but the experience I have now is nothing compared to that.**_

 _ **While the massacre was brutal, I cannot say I have not seen worse.**_

 _ **I am starving. My stomach just growled right now and my fingers are getting bonier and thinner. I need new boots and I can't seem to get rid of the taste of mud in my mouth or the ringing in my ears.**_

 _ **Schweinemord. The pig massacre. That was what they had called it and it had been useless in the end. No supplies had been preserved and it did nothing to increase my grain.**_

 _ **I told my officials that manure was needed for fertilizer, but their bellies were not full and that was all that mattered to them. Now my people have to suffer even more.**_

 _ **Being a nation is not what I expected. I thought perhaps the officials would at least consider my ideas, I was older than everyone in the damn room, yet they still treat my advice as child's play just because I do not have facial hair or crow's feet to show 'wisdom.'**_

 _ **It is sickening. I know more than they do, I am the voice of the people, yet they deny me from that voice being heard. Only congratulating me when it is beneficial."**_

"Oh, Germany. Being a nation is no fun, is it? It's sad and scary, and mostly annoying. I really wished you had stayed small and cute," Italy said hovering his fingers over the page.

Italy felt sad for Germany and for the poor pigs. Hunger was a scary thing. It makes you think thoughts that aren't your own and while a nation can continue on without food or water unlike a normal human, they still felt hunger. They were not immune to the feeling of acidity in their empty stomachs or stretched skin over their ribs.

Italy did a quick thank you prayer to God for pasta and the blessing of having good food on the table every day and quickly resumed.

 _ **"I truly wish I hadn't joined this war.**_

 _ **I'm a mess. My government is a mess, people tell me straight to my face that I won't last more than a couple months, and my people are losing hope. Those people are right, it is a miracle I am still here.**_

 _ **I can't give up now, though. I cannot lose hope, as crushed as it is right now, that we can still win and finally end this. I cannot allow myself to slack off. Not for my people, my superiors, for Brother, or for myself.**_

 _ **I have had many losses. Brutal losses. (Not as bad as Italy. Serves that bastard right.)**_

 _ **I have had my victories as well. If you want to call them that, but victories.**_

 _ **I do not think they were worth it. Those victories. They did not make me feel any happier.**_

 _ **Brother lied to me on this. He said there was nothing better than a man going out to battle and winning for his home. He preached to me about nothing being able to replicate the feeling of blood pumping through your veins and seeing the person collapse under your flag.**_

 _ **I did not think it was rewarding. I felt my blood pump, my hands itch to pick up a gun and to throw a bomb, but I did not grin when the Frenchman had crumbled to my feet like Brother does next to me on my left. I did not feel glory.**_

 _ **I felt a sickening, bittersweet gratification. You kill the enemy. Those are the rules of war.**_

 _ **I've become less attached, human lives seeming to matter to me less and less now. Yet, I grow to learn more compassion and empathy. Is that possible? Or am I just going delirious from inhaling so much gas and smoke?**_

 _ **It's strange how once you are the one suffering you suddenly see everyone for what they are: greedy, compelling, gluttonous and flawed."**_

Italy whistled seeing that was the end of that. Wow, who knew Germany could get so deep?

Italy stuck his thumb to hold his place inside the book and closed it to keep his place.

Italy wished he hadn't betrayed Germany either. He wished England had gone through with his treaty and given him the things he had been promised. He should have known the deal was too good—he should have known that it was too suspicious to finally be getting something he wanted.

It had been simple really, all he had wanted was the region by the Adriatic Sea—Tyrol, Dalmatia, and Istria. Those three pieces of land and he would have been set, content as can be.

But no. He had to betray the Alliance and make a fool out of himself.

Italy flushed, ducking his head in shame at what Germany commented about Italy's weak military losses.

England and France should have known better than to set him up with an important military task. It had been daunting. Scary!

Italy looked at the clock and saw that it was nine thirty. He put the book on the table and went to go check on his pasta noodles. They were doing just fine, but Italy couldn't help but think back to the words. The smells of the kitchen felt familiar yet cold.

He forgot about the journal and tried to pour all of his energy into making the pasta delicious. He tried making the pasta as delectable and flavorful as he could with the limited ingredients in the dark cabinets.

He used his old pot and hummed softly, feeling oddly guilty (and deep down happy) wearing Germany's pink apron while pouring the thick and chunky tomato sauce over the steaming noodles. He sat back down and let his mind solely focused on savoring the food.

It was a luxury after all.

 **...**

 **Dear,**

 **blank blank. Blank blank**

— **the official way to write a formal letter in German. The first letter after the greeting is not capitalized.**

 **Blank blank blank.**

 **From _**

— **unlike in English, the closing does not need to be two lines or have a comma.**

 **...**

 **Major thanks to ravengal and maryanstadler1 for being so supportive! This chapter goes out to you guys!**


	6. Abacus

Chapter Six — Abacus

...

Once Italy was done with the pasta he washed the dishes (grudgingly) and cleaned up his mess lethargically. Deeming the kitchen presentable, he left and floated amongst the rooms, his mind never on one thing, but focused on another thing intently.

The house was full of things (useless, mundane things) that seemed fascinating to Italy. The little machines filled with German gibberish, the forgotten paintings they shared...

He even stumbled upon Germany's gym!

Italy immediately left.

He found a developing room for pictures. It was a small room, but it certainly brought back memories of having to wait for the pictures to develop under that red water. He fiddled with some fans then left getting bored.

He found other uninteresting rooms. Rooms that were filled with dusty beds or were locked when he jiggled the handle.

Italy wondered around the house and paused after closing a door that led to an old ballroom.

Silence.

Italy listened some more and heard nothing.

"Berlitz? Blackie? Aster? Where are you guys!"

He started running around the house and busting doors open. He jerked his head to the left then right, then left, then right in a repeated motion. Germany's dogs were missing. How could he have not noticed sooner!

Italy closed a door he had opened in a frenzy and wandered back to the living room in confusion. Where could they have gone? Did Prussia take them to some kind of dog daycare?

"Now that I think about it, Germany's cat isn't here either. The little guy is usually sleeping by the window. Where did they all go?" Italy thought with brows slightly furrowed.

He chewed his lip and walked towards the back door leading to the large field of grass called the backyard.

He slid the door open and shivered a bit as the morning was still chilly despite the sun being out and shining.

He looked around and tried to do the same thing Germany did with his lips and fingers. He forgot how Germany had told him to do it, his memory being very fuzzy in the proper shape and where to place your tongue on the finger—him only succeeding in making spit fly everywhere. He sounded like a turbulent kazoo. He pinched his lip and he let out a tear of pain.

Italy frowned slightly. He slid the door back open and stepped inside.

He's sure the dogs were fine. They knew what to do. Those dogs were better prepared than Italy so he let that trouble come for another time. Italy was going to ask Prussia when he came back.

Italy wondered what he should do. He floated back to the couch tired from running around. He sunk into the cushions and let out a pleased sigh. He sat there and went over the things he wanted to do that day.

His boss has probably sent him ten e-mails already demanding why he hasn't been picking up or responding to the chain messages.

His cat knew where the food was (that gluttonous cute hellspawn) so there was no real worry there.

Italy laughed. His tabby was probably already out in the town chatting with some cute female kitties.

Maybe Germany cat went with Italy cat? They did always leave and come back at prolonged hours in the day, his kitty always happier after a day out with the German feline.

He could still call America. Ask him for help. It was very tempting now.

Italy sighed and leaned his head backward to look at the ceiling. He turned on the fan and the rhythmic shaking was making his eyes lose focus to the monotone white.

 _"Read another log? It seems a bit early for that. Eat again? I ate all my noodles, and I'm too lazy to go to the store. Call Romano? See what he's up too? ...He's probably with Spain or that one guy. What's his name, it's on the tip of my tongue, oh what is it—Kennedy! No, Canada."_ Italy mused.

 _"Try to find Germany's dogs?"_

 _"..."_

 _"I feel like I'm forgetting something. Something really important..."_

Italy felt his eyes starting to close. The house was silent, the fridge humming nearby, the dangling beaded strings of the fan were hitting each other melodically...

 _Click, click, click, click, click, click —_

What was he supposed to be focusing on?

 _Click, click click, click, click, brrr, brrr, brrr, brrr, brrr—_

Why is Germany's house so quiet? It's relaxing but it needs noise...

Italy's eyes snapped open.

 _"The number! I need to call the number in the phonebook!"_ Italy thought as he positioned his head back to normal, him no longer seeing the ceiling but the T.V. to jam his hand in his pocket.

 _"Where is it? I just had it yesterday!"_ Italy scavenged his pocket pants and felt every inch of the fabric in an attempt to find some small piece of paper appear—knowing it was impossible by the time his hand searched for the third time.

He jumped out of his seat and jogged to the kitchen. He searched the whole kitchen, even going as far to check places he never opened. No luck.

He debated retracing his steps but decided that would take too much effort. Could it have slipped out? In some precarious room when he was distracted?

Italy decided to go check his room on the way to Germany's room. He opened the door and cheered when he saw the innocent yellow paper on the desk. Worry flushed out of his system and he moved to grab the sticky note happily.

He grabbed it and nodded to himself. He was not going through that scare again. He needed to call this person and see what was up.

Italy moved to the kitchen and spotted the thick, black wall phone by the light switch. He grabbed the phone—the cold phone giving out its pulsating bzz bzz bzz bzz immediately through its small plastic holes.

He put the phone to rest between his ear and right shoulder to bring the note in sight. He moved the phone back to his hand and jabbed the numbers. He had to repeat the process as the beeping noises confused him the first time and made him lose track.

The German voice spoke to him before a ringing was heard to signify the call was going through.

Italy curled the coiled spring nervously around his finger as he waited for a voice nonmechanical to answer him back.

 _"Hermes Apotheke, Schwartz. How may I help you?"_

Italy's stomach felt butterflies and he didn't know why. Was he actually nervous?

" _Hello?_ Ah, _um,_ _is_ this _Lydia Schwartz_ _I am_ speaking with, _with?_ " Italy said struggling to communicate the German fluently.

"No, this is not Lydia. I speak English by the way," the obviously male voice responded back.

"Oh, thank goodness! Do you knew where I can reach Lydia then?" Italy said bubbly.

"Are you Italian?" the voice asked amused. There were more voices in the background and the general sound of activity.

"Yes! I am, I'm Feliciano Vargas! Who are you?" Italy said, stopping his nervous twisting and shifting.

"Gernot Schwartz."

"Oh, are you her husband?"

"Son."

"Oh, well nice to meet you! Is she there? I need to ask her some things, if that isn't too much trouble."

"...I'm sorry but she is no longer available..."

"When will she back?"

"No, sir, you misunderstand. She's not coming back," Gernot said with a strained voice.

"Is she on break? Is there any way I can contact her? I have these really important questions to ask her so if I could just talk to her —"

"She's dead. She's been dead since nineteen seventy-five," he responded back somewhat hollow.

"...Oh," Italy said dumbfounded and blank.

"...I'm sorry about that, but I'm sure your questions can be answered by one of our staff or by me," he said coughing to keep the pain out of his voice.

Italy felt sympathy. "It must have been horrible...losing your mother like that...I'm so sorry," Italy whispered through the line.

The other one was audibly shocked at the tenderness. "Yes, well, it was long ago, so it's nothing to concern yourself over," the voice responded back uncomfortable. "Is there something I can help you with in place of my mother? I know you requested her but she is not here so..."

"I don't think so. Unless somehow—Have you by any chance ever heard you mother mention Ludwig? Ludwig Beilschmidt?"

"How are you connect with that man?" A seeping coldness in his voice. This made Italy on edge.

"He's my best friend, but he's missing right now, and I saw this number and decided to call it."

"Where did you find it?"

"I-In a contact book?"

"What contact book? Where? Is this published?" Gernot barked over the phone.

"No, no! Ludwig's —"

"Do not speak of that name."

"Why not?" Italy asked fearfully, growing even more confused and anxious.

"Just don't. In whose what?"

"In his contact book. It's not published anywhere, I swear!"

A sigh. "Thank goodness. I'm sorry about that, family protocol," he said with an apologetic voice.

Italy breathed out a nervous laugh. "It's okay, you just sounded really scary there..."

"Again, I apologize for that but now that I know what you're looking for, let me ask you one question."

"Okay."

"What is your relationship to him?"

Italy paused. "I am his best friend."

The voice choked for a second. "Best friend?"

"Yep! I've known Luddy for years!"

"I see...and you say that he is missing?"

Italy's voice became less happy. "Yes, he's been missing for a while now, and I'm trying to find him. It's been hard, it's like he just disappeared off of the earth!"

"Interesting. Well, I can give you this much advice for helping you try to find this Luddy of yours. He is not the man you think he is—all the things you probably know about him are lies. Take what you know and destroy it."

"Wait, what? Ludwig is a very good guy, why would you say that? He can be mean and really scary at first, but he's got a good heart! I know him and he wouldn't lie to me!" Italy responded back fiercely.

"That's fine, believe what you want, I am simply telling you what you need to do in order to find him. If that's how you want to think, then you will never find him."

"But, but how do you know that? You don't even know Ludwig."

"I know enough."

"You know of Ludwig? Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Because I do not care to share information about him. Just remember what I said to you. I wish luck in your search. Good day."

"Wait, don't hang up on me!" Italy cried.

Italy hung his head down in defeat and placed the phone back in its place dejectedly.

He waited a couple minutes and redialed.

 _"Hermes Apotheke, Schwartz. How may I help you?"_

"You just hung up on me! That was so rude of you," Italy said sniffing.

"Why are you calling back?" Gernot said annoyed.

"Okay, okay, I know you hate Ludwig for some reason, but can you at least tell me someone who doesn't so I can call them instead?"

The other stayed in a pensive silence for a short second. "Will giving you this number stop making you call me?"

"Yes, yes! I will be out of your hair before you know it! Just please, I need to get as information as I can. I really miss him," Italy said with his voice breaking.

Gernot sighed. "Hold on a minute, I'll be back."

"Bene! Thank you!" The line was already silent by the time he said that. He tapped his fingers on the wall waiting in anxiousness not knowing if the man was coming back or not.

"Sorry about that, I'm back now."

"You came back! I thought you hung up for a second."

"I said I would be back in a moment?" Gernot asked confused at the emotional relief from Feliciano.

"A lot of people hang up and keep me waiting...anyway! You have a person?"

"Yes. I tried to find their number, but somehow the number was illegible, and I couldn't make out the numbers. I can give you a name if that helps any."

 _"He's lying,"_ Italy thought.

"Anything helps," he said gratefully.

"Look for someone named Holger Amster."

"Wait one second, I need to find a pen, don't hang up, I'll be right back so don't hang up!" Italy left the phone dangling by the wall and rushed to find a pen. He came back and quickly put the phone by his ear again.

"I'm back. Can you repeat that?"

"Holger Amster. H-o-l-g-e-r. Holger. Amster...A-m-s-t-e-r. Holger Amster."

"E-r. Thank you so much, Gernot!"

"You're welcome. Have a good day and good luck. Don't call again."

Italy hung up the phone and looked at the name in wonder. Holger Amster.

Now who could that be?

...

Five hours have passed since he has called. Italy tried his best to entertain himself. He watched some T.V. but his mind couldn't translate the German fast enough to enjoy anything and the subtitles were just as equally useless.

He caught up on some sleep as well. He woke up groggy eyed and not that much better than before. Strange it was since he always felt lighter after a nap.

He considered reading another entry but he was trying to put that off for the end of the day.

Italy didn't know where to start. Holger Amster? There could be thousands of Holger Amsters! In Germany alone! And who even said he was in Germany? What if he was in Netherlands or some other obscure and shady nation?

In the two hours spent searching through the dusty drawers full of lighters and chapsticks, Italy couldn't find a phone book. The phone books weren't updated, (to a reasonable year, at least. Why do they only have up to 1964?) and the internet was a big waste of time with its insistence to be a laggard with intolerable shrieking.

Italy was really looking forward to meeting this mystery man but it seemed like all he can do is wait until Prussia returns.

So wait he did.

...

So maybe Italy couldn't just sit still and do nothing, (the heaviness in his chest that he hasn't felt in such a long time from "peace" coming and thickening as the clock ticks onward) and maybe Italy got a little bored.

Italy had to wonder as he lied on Germany's bed (the scent of Germany all gone and replaced with the cool sheets of lavender laundry detergent and dust) of just how much Germany is willing to allow himself to be vulnerable. He was bound to realize that someday, somehow, someone would read his private thoughts. An over curious human, maybe, but surely Germany will come to the conclusion that his thoughts are never his.

Italy flipped the rusting, old pages and read.

 _ **26\. March 1917**_

 _ **"I thought I understood war and now I'm not so sure anymore. The more I fight the more I forget, and the more I forget, the more I try to remember only to start all over again.**_

 _ **I do not believe we are going to win this war. I have asked Brother how to get rid of the ringing sound in my ear but he doesn't know either. I don't think he could hear me all that well, both his ears were bandaged and bloodied.**_

 _ **I hate allergies as well. I can't stop sneezing and that gave me away to the enemy. My right shoulder survived from the bullet wound but it was still painful.**_

 _ **Times are unfavorable, and I can't help but sometimes feel it's all my fault. There is just so much death and the smog is starting to taint my lungs. My people can't stop being anxious and pessimistic and that, in turn, is making me jittery. I don't fault them.**_

 _ **As horrible as life is right now, I cannot say that my current days have been completely intolerable.**_

 _ **I met this strange man named Italy today. Called himself the Tomato Box Fairy but herr schtick and I were not fooled by those lies."**_

Italy squealed.

 _ **"He is nothing like how he was back in 886. He did not insult me, glare at me, or do anything remotely hostile. He's petrified of me. He doesn't seem to remember me at all.**_

 _ **He is lazy, a complete idiot, has no sense of privacy or space, a hopeless flirt around women, and is completely useless in every way possible. I cannot believe such a weak country can be related to the Roman Empire."**_

Italy's smiled immediately vanished.

 _ **"He made me this ridiculous song for me. It didn't even rhyme.**_

 _ **He complains all day about the food being horrible, sleeps more than any animal I've ever seen, and can somehow see without opening his eyeballs. (I should ask him about that, it seems helpful for when in the trenches.) He always has something to say and doesn't know what it means to shut up.**_

 _ **Italy is the most annoying prisoner I've ever had. I should kill him."**_

Italy gasped.

 _ **"But I won't. He's strange but...not in a bad way."**_

He let out a sigh of relief.

 _ **"Italy is the first person to say he/she wants to stay with me. Italy insists that we do things together and he always wants to have useless chit chat about everything. I've told him to shut up many times but then he cries and I get this strange feeling of guilt.**_

 _ **He keeps telling me confusing things. He looks too happy and is too trusting. He actually likes staying in captivity.**_

 _ **I've never had this happen before, so I will admit that I am greatly confused right now. Why would he want to stay with me? It makes no logical sense."**_

"Oh, Germany. Why can't you understand that I just wanted to be your friend?" Italy asked softly to the small text on the crisp page.

 _ **"He shouldn't want to stay with me. He should be trying to find a way to escape and glaring (being like he was all those years ago). He should NOT be so easily accepting of my daily visits. Why does he smile when I come down there? He seems to actually want me to be there. (I may be losing it, but the war hasn't made me that crazy.) There is nothing to be happy about.**_

 _ **Yet, I find myself not minding. I don't—I just. Why? I've never felt this way for any other person (human) so maybe it is because he is a country? A country that doesn't hate me for once? A country that smiles in that dingy cellar and sleeps with a look of a child...**_

 _ **I've tried letting him go many times. He became too annoying and clingy. It wasn't worth the effort, I could barely sleep with his moans of "agony" (he was just hungry—as if I wasn't) and the constant need to go to the bathroom. I don't have him tied up in the cellar anymore; the door isn't even locked. He can leave anytime he wants, but, but he just won't! It's driving me mad! Why doesn't he leave already? Like everyone else?**_

 _ **I asked him why he doesn't escape and he said that staying with me was much better and fun than out fighting. He doesn't like to fight, he told me. He waves that white flag around like a lifeline (and maybe it is) so should I be surprised.**_

 _ **I am conflicted, journal. I like his company, but is it right to? I want to believe that he's not out to maim me like the others, but what lies behind that sweet smile I do not know. Surely, he cannot be joyful at a time like this. Yes, he is a liar. I just know it. He cannot enjoy being around me of all people. It must be a ploy, a hoax from England and France. They must be laughing right now.**_

 _ **That is it. I have decided that I will not succumb to Italy's charm."**_

Italy had little question marks floating over his head. Was there a plan? England and France had chewed him out like crazy when he returned to them. They had won, but Italy's betrayal reflected what he received as a spoil of war. It seemed France wasn't such a nice big brother after all.

 _ **"I think about what an ideal world would be like without war or hate when the grenades have stopped exploding, and the nurses attend to the sobbing soldiers quietly. I would want to be in a summer meadow. Blackie would be there, and I could just be Ludwig for a day. Not Germany, West, Mister, or Commander. The sky would be always painted with vibrant hues of oranges and soft pinks, a large tree with sour apples towering into the sky as well; and the tree would be sturdy from the cool breeze. There would be a small river by the never ending green. Beer would be plentiful and Brother would be cackling annoyingly from the background with Hungary. She would sweep with that old and odd broom of hers, and the sky wouldn't look so close...**_

 _ **I'm becoming delusional. I am sorry Brother. I truly am. I got too ahead of myself. I thought I could handle it and,"**_

The writing is shaky and odd from the orderly letters, but there are no splotches of wetness on the page. The bristle paper was dry and crisp with its archaic smell of cigars and dirt.

 _ **"I couldn't. Why did I think you were going to laugh and pat my head despite me being taller than you now? This war is making me turn into a fool...A fool indeed."**_

Italy flipped the page and saw a new date. Italy let out a sigh and placed a thumb over the bottom corner of the page, fiddling with the hardness of the other sealed pages. His eyes felt moisture—the mirror in front of his huddled body reflecting the damp and dark eyelashes that blinked away the accumulating water furiously—but not once did a tear roll down his tight cheeks.

Italy closed the book and set it on the desk while turning off the dull light by the creaking table.

...

"Germany won't mind if I look through his chest again, right? Prussia's not here and I think Germany would be okay with it..." Italy mumbled entering Germany's room again after making himself dinner. Prussia still wasn't home.

Italy's bare feet immediately went to the unmoved bookshelf, the door behind still present. Italy tugged at the cold and rigid handle, the metallic stabbing at his palm from the pressure. The door opened and the chest was still there. Italy squatted down and opened the lid.

 _"I wonder what I'll find,"_ Italy thought gripping the edges. He grabbed a random piece of paper and opened it.

 _ **05\. July 1967**_

 _ **"West,**_

 _ **how's it been? It's been awhile since I've last written to you. That asshole Russia has been trying to stop me from sending you letters. Surprisingly, Belarus helped me mail this to you—"**_

Italy shook his head and smiled a little. _"I must have grabbed the same one,"_ Italy thought while grabbing another paper, putting the one he just grabbed beside him on the floor.

 _ **05\. July 1967**_

 _ **"West,**_

 _ **how's it been? It's been awhile since I've last written to you. That asshole Russia has been trying to stop me —"**_

Italy furrowed his brow. He looked at the paper and back at the black inked words beside his thigh.

He grabbed the page beside him and held them together side by side.

They were exactly the same.

What in the.

Italy grabbed another page, one from the dark crevices of the bottom.

It was blank.

It was just a sheet of blank paper. Folded, curled, and old looking but most definitely empty.

Italy threw the paper behind him and heard the paper crinkle in the air sharply behind him. He dug into the chest and grabbed another paper.

As he opened the page, the sight of black ink wasn't very reassuring but it was something.

 _ **09\. December 1952**_

 _ **"Dear Brother,**_

 _ **I hope that you are doing well. I miss you, Brother. I really wish this wall had never been built, but my opinion doesn't matter right now. Please take care of—"**_

Italy felt saliva go up against his throat.

"This sure is weird," he said as he placed that piece of white paper beside him gently.

 _ **05\. July 1967**_

 _ **"West,**_

 _ **how's it been? It's been awhile since I've last written to you—"**_

Italy flung the letter behind him. His hand shot in and grabbed a sheet of paper, not caring that the page crumbled and folded jaggedly underneath his hand.

 _ **09\. December 1952**_

 _ **"Dear Brother,**_

 _ **I hope that you are doing well. I miss you, Brother."**_

"This is just a really weird coincidence!"

 _ **1967**_

 _ **"West,**_

 _ **how's it been? It's been awhile —"**_

 _ **1967**_

 _ **"West,**_

 _ **how's it been?"**_

 _ **1952**_

 _ **"Dear Brother,**_

 _ **I hope that you are doing well."**_

"They can't all be the same...!"

 _ **"I really wish this wall had never been built —"**_

 _ **"— but West. You gotta stay strong. You gotta forget about Italy. You gotta remember that you weren't the one at fault —"**_

 _ **"Italy hasn't been latching onto me in these meetings. I think he's scared of what I look like now. I wouldn't blame him. Even —"**_

A blank page again. Multiple blank pages he had come across and thrown away regarding it as useless.

He was sitting in a nest of folded truths and he didn't know why he thought Prussia wouldn't lie.

...

"So what did you do all day?" Prussia asked rotating his shoulder in what Italy assumed to get the knots out.

"I cooked and ate some pasta. Then I slept. Oh, and then I went exploring a bit. I didn't know you guys had a ballroom," Italy said with less happiness than usual. His eyes glanced to the left and immediately returned to Prussia's chuckling form.

"That old thing? That thing's been here before West was born," Prussia said fondly.

Italy tilted his head. "How old is this house then?"

"Hmm let's see, maybe since the eleventh century? It used to belong to the Marquartstein family but West bought this from them back in the 50's."

"Wow! It's old then. It still looks so new too."

"Good old West for ya. An awesome house for my awesome little brother, kesesese!"

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Italy asked after a shared smile.

"Sure, the awesome me has an answer."

"Do you know Lydia Schwartz?"

Prussia's eyes widened but then he coughed, the look of surprise going away just as fast as it had appeared.

"Yeah?"

"I called her but she didn't answer...her son answered. It's sad that she died."

Prussia shot Italy a sympathetic glance, to him or for Lydia he did not know.

"Did you know she died from liver cancer? How sad..."

Prussia muttered under his breath, an angry kind of muttering of disbelief and genuine disgust.

"Very sad I bet. Not awesome, I bet."

Italy looked at him strangely for his curt answer. "I'm kinda stuck right now, though. I can't find this Holger Amster anywhere! He's not in your phone books or online," Italy paused as an afterthought, "I wasn't expecting to find him on the internet, though."

"Holger Amster? Who's that?" Prussia asked interestedly. Italy shrugged.

"I don't know. Gernot told me to find to talk to him if I want answers and—"

"Wait, wait. Who's Gernot?"

"Lydia's son. He was kinda rude and he lied to me about the —"

"Do you know his age?" Prussia was now at the kitchen table taking slow swigs of his beer, the taste not settling on his tongue entirely but the acidic flavor running down his throat out of a familiar burning.

"Nope!" Italy said sipping his Fanta watching the sun still blaze outside despite the clock reading eight.

Prussia didn't comment but instead just drank again.

"Anyways, I was told to find Gernot. They're so many Asters! It's kinda hard to find him. Maybe it's 'cuz the book is outdated? You should replace the phone book, by the way, it's really old. And now I don't know what to do Prussia! The whole family hates Luddy!" Italy whined lowering to rest his head on his arms.

"Gernot or the whole family? That's weird, we didn't do anything to them," Prussia said thinking of any conflict with a Schwartz family.

"I think the whole family? I dunno, it's making my brain go all gooey."

"You could always ask America you know, I bet this Gernot has some relatives over there," Prussia said.

Italy laughed a little at the comment. "True! He did offer to help but..."

"You want to do this on your own."

Italy nodded not trusting his voice. Italy heard Prussia get up and open the fridge, the light flickering a bit before it was closed just as quickly with a new beer in Prussia's pale hands.

The obnoxious sound of cracking the fizzing tab open and a helpful tone—these were the things Italy heard as he breathed out. "Take my awesome advice. Go ask America for help. He's got those weird computer thingies and could probably find some kind of connection back to the Schwartz."

"Aren't you supposed to know everyone?" Italy whined.

Prussia burst out cackling. "Hell no! Do you know every damn Marco or Luigi in your country? The awesome me doesn't have time for that!"

Italy pouted but saw the truth in Prussia's words.

"But the phone is so far away!"

Prussia rolled his eyes and took a swig out of the glinting can. "Just do it. Besides, it's not like you have any pride left," Prussia said bluntly.

Italy would have been offended but, again, Prussia was right. He had no pride left, not any real pride forsay, so Italy didn't know what held him back from grabbing the phone in his twitchy hands and begging America for help.

America, with all his acquittances and debaucheries, was still a helpful nation and a good person by heart. Italy really liked America — for what he represented, the idea of a true republic — but still couldn't bring himself to trust the smiling nation. It has never really worked well in the past.

Prussia heard Italy sigh and shook his head. "You're being totally unawesome right now. Go grow some balls, well actually, lose your balls and go call America!"

Italy glanced up. "I thought this would be easier, though! And, and what if America doesn't want to help! He's scary!"

"Pffft. Sure, okay, the kid is pretty tough but he's a goddamn boy scout through and through. He has that unawesome hero complex so I don't know what the issue is. He needs to find Germany, you want to find Ludwig so it's a win-win for everyone."

"Really?" Italy asked sitting up straighter, hopeful.

Prussia took a swig. "Duh."

Italy nodded rapidly and quickly stood up to go to the small wall phone by the wall. He felt the cold receiver hit against his ear and he hovered over the rigid numbers with a goal in his veins. It was only once he almost pressed a number that he realized that he doesn't know how to make international calls from Germany.

"Prussia, I don't know how to make international calls! How do you call to America?" Italy said twisting back to face Prussia.

Prussia told him the code and got up to go feed Gilbird.

Italy waited and soon heard the familiar loudness of America.

"Yellow, America speaking."

"America! It's Italy here — Northern Italy, not Romano like the last time you got confused. I really need your help, and I didn't want to call you at first but then Prussia told me to call you because you said you could help me, but I also remember you said that you could help me in any way possible so here I am!"

The line was static, little buzzes and scratches heard through an attentive ear. "Do you ever breath? Wowza, but of course I'll help you, dude! It's my duty to be the hero right? Waddya need help with?"

Italy smiled in glee. "I need help in finding, someone. I've already tried here in Germany, and Prussia is no help so he told me to ask you since a relative might live at your place. I thought it was genius and decided to call you. You can do that, right? Find someone?"

"That's it? Of course, I can do that!"

"Oh good! I knew I made a right choice calling you."

"Yeah, dude. So who are ya looking for?"

"A person named Holger Amster. I don't know anything other than that."

America paused, the line quiet for a second. "That's going to be kinda hard. Are you sure there's nothing else you can offer me? It's better to just narrow it down right now if we can." Italy heard wheels roll over a hard floor and he felt a little guilty for disturbing America while he was working.

"Let's see. I got this name from someone named Gernot Schwartz. I don't know his personal number but he answered the call when I tried calling Lydia Schwartz."

"And who are these people? Kinda talkin' in circles," America said over the line grabbing some keys from his desk.

"Okay so from what I know so far, Lydia was Lu-Germany's pharmacist? I don't know, some kind of medical person thingy. She died," Italy said with deep sadness back to normality in a second, the death not taking a toll too deeply, "so when I tried calling her son picked up instead—Gernot."

"Alright, so this Lydia knew of nation status, right?"

"I don't know, probably?"

America sighed, sounding pained for a second before having clarity again. "Okay, let's assume she does. She's dead, right? Do you know when she died?"

"No. How does this help in finding Holger, America?" Italy asked confused (and feeling incompetent because he's supposed to know the answers, he's supposed to know the questions).

"It's all important in an investigation. You should know this — motives, alibis, age, ethnicity, socioeconomics, family history, relationships, they all count," America said while jotting down some notes.

"Not really...? I'm usually not the one doing that kind of stuff. It sounds hard," Italy said leaning on the wall and wondering for a moment when Prussia disappeared.

" _Okay,_ can you at least give me the number to...Gernot? Let's just call it Gernot's number for now since Lydia is dead."

Italy had no problem regurgitating the number back to America. The number was now engraved in his memory unintentionally.

"Nice. Finally, some progress, my dude. Anything else? The sooner we start the better."

"Hmmm, oh. They really hate Ludwig! They want to murder him!" Italy said cheerfully.

"That would have been helpful from the beginning! But damn, can't say I'm surprised," America said snickering. Italy frowned knitting his eyebrows together for a second before giggling a bit as well, the lighthearted air being rather poisonous and infectious.

"Yeah, he told me that if I wanted to find Ludwig I had to take everything I know and destroy it because he's not who I think he is. That's crazy, though! Right?"

"Wait, can you say that one more time?"

Italy repeated what he said.

"Weird, weird. This is all so fucked up but we're getting somewhere. Don't worry Italy, with me and my trusty F.B.I. and Tony, we will find this person in a jiffy! Well, in the U.S. at least."

"How cool," Italy said in admiration.

"Oh, that reminds me, what are you doing at Germany's house? Is Prussia there?" America asked curiously.

"I wanted to come and find some clues, they're so many holy moly, and now I'm here. I'm only four entries in the journal so far and Prussia is here too! He's been really nice! I think he's been taking over for Germany since he's gone but he's still the same."

"Huh. That's good to know. Well, I'll call you if I know anything. See ya!"

Italy didn't have time to say goodbye as the phone was beeping and the call ending. Italy hung up and felt rather pleased.

Prussia walked in with a chirping, happy Gilbird on his shoulder and he coddled and cooed at for a moment before smiling to Italy. "How'd it go?"

Italy had a feeling he knew regardless of his high-pitched answer.

"It went good. He is going to help me and is working on finding some people related to Holger! How exciting!"

"While you'll be...?" Prussia asked watching the little bird peck at his palm calmly.

"I'll be...I'll be...um. I'll be reading some more journal entries?" Italy said confused. He didn't think he would get this far.

Prussia rolled his eyes. "No, you'll be going back to your place, packing up and getting your ass to America's house." Italy looked alarmed.

"Why do I need to go to his house? He just told me he'll call if anything happens," Italy asked with his brown eyes following Prussia's moving back.

"Yeah, but don't you want to go there for yourself?"

Italy looked down at the tiled floor. So white and clean they are, so orderly. "I do, but —"

Prussia shook his frantically as if anticipating the rejection. "Nope, nope, nope. We are not going through this. The awesome me is giving you awesome life advice, again, so just listen to it. You are going to America and you're going to do some digging to drag my sorry brother's ass home."

"But wouldn't it make more sense to look in Germany?" Italy asked confused as his back was pushed out the kitchen door by Prussia's larger ones.

"Not everything can be found in black and white. Remember that."

...

"I really wish Romano wouldn't be so grouchy all the time, you know? He looks better when he smiles," Italy said watching Prussia clean in wonderment at how much energy Prussia could have after a day chalked full of business.

Prussia didn't look up from wiping the table but did visibly agree. "But then he wouldn't be the asshole Romano we all know. It would be awesome, but it wouldn't be him." Prussia spoke not as loudly as he usually would as he was tired, but he still held the same vigor in his speech.

"True, but he can be so mean sometimes. Especially to poor Big Brother Spain. Spain doesn't mind, though. I wonder why," Italy said looking to Prussia expectantly.

Prussia sprayed and answered. "You do know they are totally fucking each other right? Toni won't be quiet about his precious tomato. I love the guy, but damn him and his clichés."

Italy did not know this. "WHAT? When did this happen? Oh, how exciting! I always knew Romano liked Spain even though he burned Spain's favorite tomato sweater that one year, and Spain got all sad and started crying and then Romano yelled at him and then they both went to the bedroom and starting screaming some more!"

Prussia stopped cleaning and looked up at Italy's radiating smile. "Right...an adorable couple," Prussia said lightly.

Italy looked down for a bit, his eyes looking relieved. "I'm honestly really happy for them...Romano finally got together with Spain and Spain with Romano...they both got what they wanted. I was always worried that Spain—'m glad he chose Romano."

"Are you jealous?"

Italy snapped his head up towards Prussia appalled. "What! No? No, no I'm not jealous, really! I'm just glad that...that Romano can finally be happy after all this time," Italy said with honesty.

"If you say so. I don't think it could have gone any other way with those two. Practically eye fucked from a mile away."

"Yeah..."

"Besides, how can you love someone that you're not close with? Someone you've never bothered to check up on? Nope, doesn't make sense!" Prussia said squeezing the trigger to the spray bottle harder than needed.

Italy peered on confused. Prussia just continued to wipe with his rhythmic circular motions, the glass already clean and spotless.

"I don't know what you mean..."

"Of course you don't. Anyway, what are you gonna do now? I'm going to be cleaning so I'm gonna have to tell you to shoo for a bit," Prussia said dismissively then added, "This would be a good time to pack too."

"H-How much have you cleaned already?" Italy asked fearfully, his heart beginning to beat faster with bated nervousness. Prussia looked up, his eyes lighting up with thought and a hidden mist of something else.

"Everything behind me, if you get that. All the bathrooms and bedrooms, clean and spiffy. By yours truly, of course!"

"S-So that means that you've cleaned Germany's room?"

"Yep. Messes are unawesome. It would be wrong to leave a mess."

Italy's heart plummeted to his stomach, the weight setting like a deep brick—heavy, dry, and solid with no way back up his constricting throat. The squeaking of the towel meeting glass flashed through his ears and Italy had to bite his tongue to not panic and start waving his flag in surrender.

"Woah, you're as pale as a ghost! You okay?" Prussia asked setting the towel down to move towards Italy, his stride long and quick.

"Just great!" The response was too sharp to be casual.

Prussia stood in front of him now. His tall and imposing figure making Italy step back. His stomach suddenly felt as light as a feather, all jittery and swayed.

"Really? Because it looks like you just saw a buffet of English food. You can talk to me, you trust me right?"

"Hey man, you okay?" Prussia asked concerned at Italy's dilating eyes.

"..."

It was settling. A dull ache into heavy and sharp breaths.

"Italy...?"

"Haha!" He finally burst out, jumping up. "I'm perfectly fine! I just zoned out, I guess!"

Prussia squinted at him. "What are you talking about? You're acting crazy. Are you on something?"

Italy stared at Prussia. Really stared at him to see the eyes of a liar, but he couldn't see anything past his dull red eyes and glossy concern.

"You mean...you didn't see what I did to Germany's room? You're...you're not mad?" Italy asked slowly.

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Prussia groaned setting the towel down.

"You don't?"

Prussia looked at him skeptically. "Did you do something?"

"No, no! I-I just found...some books. Yeah! Some books. I didn't know Germany liked fairy tales, did you?"

Prussia cackled. "Oh does he ever! He used to beg me every night to read it to him. Every night he would go, 'oh amazing, wonderful big brother Prussia, read me a story.' So, of course, I read him one because I'm awesome, but yeah. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to enjoy that kind of stuff, does he?"

"I think it's very endearing," he replied trying to smile, but it came out horribly forced and painful.

Prussia shrugged and continued to clean. Italy scurried out not looking back.

...

Italy left Germany's house (mansion) with a wave and a heavy heart. When Italy had returned to Germany's room, the floor had been spotless without a paper in sight. The bookshelf had been moved to the exact same position as it had been prior to Italy's stubborn curiosity, and the books were neat and proper, one never leaning or squashed. The room smelled of no distinction, the only scent being one of pungent cleaner and a strange crispness that came with cleanliness.

That had been a day ago. Now Italy was sitting in a silent taxi cab to arrive in America's house in Georgia. The drive was fascinating to Italy; he had never visited any other city other than New York, and even Italy knew that America was much more than the looming skyscrapers. He knew of America's vastness—knew the size of the land from the solid color that stated THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA on every map, but it wasn't until Italy flew over large squares of green, rolling mountains, and felt the change did he become truly amazed at how big America is. Surely, there couldn't be more to the west!

He told the taxi driver his amazement. The awkward man did not share the same enthusiasm as him, instead opting to keep his tired eyes on the road. Italy was fine with that, though. Georgia's heat reminded him a lot of home with its sticky temperature, and Italy felt excited when the taxi finally pulled up to a large, gated house. A real Southern mansion! Italy was so excited he almost forgot to pay the man or take off his seatbelt.

The car backed away and drove off leaving Italy standing under the hot sun with a smile. The gates slowly opened and Italy watched awed as the luscious, verdant garden and court was presented to him. Did every nation live like this? First Germany, now America? America never was humble, though.

"Italy! I'm glad ya could make it! I reckon you're real tired from the trip. I was just fixin' to look up the files too," America said with a warm smile.

"Why are you talking funny like that?" Italy asked not quite being able to put his finger on what made America sound different.

"Funny? How am I talkin' funny?" America looked confused before his eyes lit up in an embarrassed recognition. He laughed a bit. "We're in Georgia, my accent is gonna change a bit too."

Italy nodded and accepted this wondering how many dialects America had. "Anyway, come right on in! I was jus' fixin' up some lemonade," America said gesturing to follow him. The gate closed behind them, the creaking slow and sharp.

"Thank you!" Italy walked towards the front door and wasn't surprised at the odd things inside the house. Italy will never understand America.

America's lemonade tasted too sweet and sugary, but Italy liked drinking something cold nonetheless in the quaint kitchen.

America took a large sip and sat the glass of condensed lemonade down, the chock like ice cubes clinking together. "So, Gernot, huh? This is the fella ya wanted ta find?"

Italy nodded rapidly. "Yes...Oh. Here, I have a picture to show you." Italy quickly dug into his pocket and took out the black and white picture. "Look at this."

America took the picture from the table and examined it. He turned it over and rose a brow at the wording. "Irene?"

"I know as much as you do. She's a complete mystery to me. Prussia wasn't much help other than that he said that Germany said she was a mistake. She must have done something really bad then. But I don't know where to start! I don't even know if that's Irene." Italy said.

"A mistake? That's a real ugly word to use for a girl, doncha think? You sure Prussia ain't just rough talkin'?"

Italy nodded despite not knowing what America meant at the end. "I know what I heard. That's what he said. I kinda thought it was weird too...I thought it was," Italy tried to think of the correct word in English, "I don't know, just weird?"

"I getcha, I getcha." America scanned the photo in his hand, and Italy just sipped the sugary drink. "Hey Italy, do ya know when this was taken?"

"Not the exact date, but Prussia told me that Germany told him that it was sent to Germany sometime in the sixties, but I don't know when it was taken. Probably around the forties or something." Italy replied hating that he still didn't know practically anything.

"Hmmm. Do ya mind if I keep this then? I'll give it right back when done," America said flipping the photograph again, his blue eyes analyzing every detail behind the sharp, clean glasses.

"Go ahead and take it. I was hoping you would use your fancy schmancy gadget thingies and find out who she is."

America looked like he was about to say something but then looked at Italy's face and shut his mouth. He glided his thumb over the name Irene then slid it over to his side of the table. He couldn't tell Italy what was painfully obvious. "Thank ya! The hero always prevails!" Italy giggled a bit and finished the last of his lemonade.

"So what should we do now?"

America leaned back in his chair. "Well, I'm gonna go get this here photograph checked for fingerprints an' of that sort. I reckon this will take my gov at least a solid three days or so. After that, hmm let's see. Oh, probably get in contact with this Gernot fellow. I probably should've told my workers to do that yesterday...gosh darn it."

Italy made a sound in amazement. "Oooh, fingerprints? You're so smart, America! I didn't think of that! Does it really take that long?"

"The process don't take too long, it's jus' lookin' through the system that just drives me mad. There is jus' so many. But it don't take that long so don't worry about it."

Italy smiled.

America smiled as well and leaned over the table with his elbows. "So...what's up."

...

America sat pensively for a bit digesting everything Italy had breathed out in his rushed, run-on sentences.

From what he had gathered, Prussia was definitely a shady character at the moment. He didn't doubt Italy's re-telling of Prussia being nice or the same, but it was those small little hiccups that made America wonder. Some of Prussia's wording seemed odd to him, even the fact that Prussia had toned down on his use of awesome as an adjective. He shared this with Italy, and Italy didn't seem to find it weird or even have noticed.

That was concerning to America as details were what made an investigation not an investigation but a conclusion. Italy's voice brought him back from his daze.

"So, what do we do now?"

America sighed and leaned back in his chair, his feet almost touching Italy's from underneath the small table. "First thing's first, I guess. I gotta get the fingerprints, then I gotta go see about this Holger fellow. That should take around two days or so. I guess I could call 'im right now, but it's probably late over there in Germany. Actually." America got up from his seat and disappeared out of the kitchen. Italy soon got up and followed.

"America?"

America was on his computer and smashing the keyboard in frustration. "LOAD YOU DAMN PIECE OF SHIT." Italy winced as he heard the intolerable screeching sounds and peeked over to see the computer with a bright, blue screen. America groaned. "Jus' when I needed to send a gosh darn e-mail..."

"You can always call!" Italy said trying to cheer America up. America looked over to the happy Italian and smiled a bit. "I guess so." America got up from his seat and unplugged the computer from the wall for the sake of their eardrums and the blocky computer. "Well, time to hit up the good ole' F.B.I. I'll be right back."

Italy nodded and floated along to admire America's decorations and baubles. America came back after fifteen minutes with documents and the photograph.

"Alrighty, I jus' called the F.B.I. and told them what's up. Come on we're leavin'."

Italy followed America's quick stride out the door. "Wait, what? Where are we going?"

America looked to Italy as if he were dumb. "To the F.B.I., of course."

"But I thought the F.B.I. came to you," Italy responded with furrowed brows. That was how it was in the movies at least. The F.B.I. came busting in with guns and with those scary black uniforms and plastic shields. America sighed.

"It don't really work like that. The F.B.I. ain't some kind of police force. It has offices aroun' my place called divisions because it's the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which means that it works in assessin' crimes and it investigates —" America saw Italy's extremely confused face and decided to stop trying to explain.

"We got to go to them."

"But the F.B.I. always comes to you."

"That ain't always the case, it's actually ain't the case most of the time—"

"Then why is it like that in the movies? That's lying."

"It ain't lyin', it's just ain't the truth. Just don't question it 'kay?"

"Okay!"

America shook his head and continued on towards leaving the house. He opened up his car once he locked his front door and jogged down the creaky, wooden steps leading to the driveway.

He went over to the passenger's side of the car and twisted the key sharply to see the stubborn little knob through the window pop up to let Italy in. Once they were both buckled in the sweltering hot car, America backed away and drove out, turning up the song _No Rain_ as he drove onto the smooth road. The melancholic tune played through as the fields blurred past their light-hearted conversation.

 _I just want someone to say to me, oh,_

 _I'll always be there when you wake, yeah_

 _Ya know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today..._

 _..._

 **F.B.I. Bursting In** — _**A**_ _**common misconception about the F.B.I. is that they come busting down your windows and start shooting you. The classic thing of, "The F.B.I. is after me!" The F.B.I .is not a police force; it is an investigation unit that deals with national and international security. They can come after you, but they may not prosecute you (if that makes sense). The headquarters are located in Washington D.C. but there are 56 offices across the United States and Puerto Rico. This is what makes it very easy to confuse with the police.**_

 _ **...**_

 **This chapter was actually pretty hard to write as this is the point in which the plot is actually going to be delved into and, uh, the plot I had planned before wasn't exactly the greatest. I spent A LOT of time revising and planning, and even now I'm kinda hesitant to continue because I feel like people won't like this story since there are OCs...**

 **Anyway, thank you for reading and supporting!**


	7. World's End Dancehall

Chapter Seven — World's End Dancehall

...

"Since we're waitin' an' all, mind if I read the book?" America asked.

America and Italy were sitting in a small room with the air conditioning blasting to its max. The lights were too bright and the old running Coke machine by the wall gave a dull hum with its peeling red paper. The table was small in front of him and it felt more like an interrogation room than a waiting room.

Two days and still "progress was being made."

"Sure! It's right...! I left it in the car..." Italy said.

America pouted and leaned down in his chair. He brightened up immediately. "I'll just go an' get it!" Italy's eyes followed America's standing up figure.

"You can't just leave me here! These guys are scary and bough! Can't we just wait here?"

"Hmm," America pretended to think, "nope. It'll be real quick, don't you worry."

"What am I going to do?"

America offered a coloring book, asked around the office if anyone had one, and in the end Italy was stuck to be bored for a good fifteen minutes alone.

"Sorry, dude. I don't got anythin' to entertain ya with, but you'll be fine! I'll be back quick."

"Okay..."

America nodded happily and left to go somewhere in those glossy, white walls.

Italy placed his palm on his cheek and tilted his head to see the ticking clock on the wall. He squinted at the wall at the black analog clock that was placed too high up and had a glare from the lighting. Three in the afternoon already? His eyes were getting droopy...

"America?"

Just his luck. He opened his eyes lazily and looked up at the smiling man with too many papers in his thick hands. "He's not here," Italy responded back yawning.

The man nodded and backed out of the for before coming back in. "You're Italy, right? The real deal? The guy with the Renaissance and stuff?"

Italy smiled amused. "That's me."

The man flashed a smile. "Cool. Hey, could you give these to America when he comes back?"

"Oh, what are they? Confidential stuff?" Italy asked as he felt the cold folder be slid into his hand.

The man shrugged. "I guess. I don't really know. I'm just the messenger, ya know?"

Italy smiled, and the man left just as swiftly he had entered. Italy looked down at the folder and felt this fingers possessed to flip the bland material.

 _ **CONFIDENTIAL**_

 _ **OPERATION PANACEA**_

 _DATE ISSUED: JULY 23 1992_

 _PRIME SUSPECT: LECHMANN, JULIANA —_

"ITALY! DUDE!"

Italy jumped violently shutting the folder. "AH! Don't hurt me!"

America shook his head aggressively. "No, we have a problem MUCH bigger than that! The journal is missin'!"

 _"What!"_ Italy said feeling cold dread at America's panicked face. America's eyes furrowed, his mouth shifting to a tiny little tilt enough to be confused as regret.

America walked over to Italy and slammed the journal on the table startling Italy once more with wide eyes.

"Jus' kiddin'!" America said with his childish glee and too perfect teeth in a smile. Italy let out a breathy sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding back and brushed the journal's cover gently. It was there. It was real, it was so, so real.

"Thank goodness," Italy mumbled. America ignored Italy and sat down sliding the thick set of papers by Italy his way. "Sorry, sorry. Couldn't resist. I don't like bein' all down and stuff, ya know?"

Italy smiled and chuckled a bit. Who America was trying to make laugh was a question he did not ask (it was an obvious answer). Are the results in?" Italy asked getting up to see the files by America's shoulder.

"I didn't think they would get 'em in so quick, but look at that! The whole shabang right here."

"So quick!" Italy said in awe. "That would have taken my government weeks."

"Well," America scratched his head, "it didn't take that long actually."

"You did say the F.B.I. is quick — "

"No, that ain't what I meant. This was too quick."

"What do you mean?" Italy asked not understanding why America was flipping through the stapled papers so quickly.

America didn't respond until he landed on a blank page. Age, sex, height, eye color, hair color — all the descriptions for a suspect blank. Holger Amster.

"Ya see this?" He slid the paper to Italy.

"Ahh, no? There's nothing here, right? That's what I'm supposed to see?"

America nodded and flipped through more curly, and neat handwritten notes within pristine boxes, and landed on a paper with a blurred Polaroid photo.

"Take a look at that."

Italy looked at America for a moment then at the blurred photo. It was just a sign. A unmemorable sign, a blurred and static picture. Italy had to squint to see the bolded and thick lettering, the style being very much of a past not so long ago. The sixties?

"What does that say?" Italy finally asked after staring at the picture until his eyes couldn't focus on one thing anymore.

"Now showing: Jar of Fireflies. Show opening: 6:30 pm. Price of admission: $1.00."

"I don't get it," Italy said handing the picture to America.

"Jar of Fireflies. Not a real well-known movie. And guess what. The main character just coincidentally had to be Holger Amster."

"So...Holger Amster isn't real?"

America leaned back in exasperation. "No. No, he ain't. He ain't real and is only a character. Agh. All that work for nothing!"

Italy stayed quiet as America sat up straight again and flipped through more pages of red highlights and complicated words.

"America, do you think it could be a clue? Some kind of weird sign we're not seeing?"

America sighed. "I don' think so, Italy. I've got all the info of the folks involved in making the movie, but none of them check through. Nothin' wrong with 'em. At least I think."

"What about the movie itself?"

"The movie itself," America repeated under his breath as he stopped to think mid flip of a paper, "I don' think so."

"What's the movie about?" Italy pressed.

"Oh! That's what you wanted to know. It's about this guy, Holger, who has schizophrenia. This is the sixties right, the asylums are real creepy and shit, so he tries to hide his mental illness. That's kinda hard since his 'friend'," America made air quotes around the word friend, "is tryin' to encourage him to make it big and get out of the small ole town he's in. This guy's real smart, but ya know. England crazy."

"His 'friend', a real lively guy named Artemis, keeps trying to egg Holger to get out of his town and do something with his skill and smarts. BUT! Holger has a wife and kid right? He can't just go leavin' 'em —"

"Are the wife and kids real?" Italy asked.

"That's the weird thing. You don' really know. It ain't answered in the movie. One of those 'decide for yourself' kind of things. But anyways, this 'friend' won't stop buggin' him about this, while in the meantime Holger has to not look crazy so he can keep his job and things. His family tries to help him, but it's no good. Holger gives in to his 'friend' and tries to make it big."

"Basically, he goes and tries to make the American dream happen, gets totally fucked, his family back home don't welcome his back, his friend was actually a hallucination but he really liked his friend and can't handle him being not real, his daughter gets him a trip to the looney bin, he stays in recovery for months not knowing what's real or not and gets real violent and crazy, his family gets a letter addressed to Holger asking permission to use his discoveries and ideas — a lot of money and fame for this — while he's in the asylum. The wife doesn't know what to do, and so she asks Holger's brother to forge the signature and takes the money and bounces. Holger tries to get better at the thought of his family and finds his wife and daughter gone with the letter sitting in the kitchen."

"The movie ends with Holger coming back from the asylum excited to see his family after so long and finds them gone with a new family in the house. His friend comes back and lays a hand on his shoulder to tell him it's okay, and he just lets it happen, but he knows he's ain't real or ever will be," America paused, "It's really sad now that I explain it, wow."

Italy's heart ached. "That's so sad... Why are your movies so depressing?"

"I don't know! I just don't see how any of this got to do with Germany," America said feeling bad that he made Italy sad again.

Italy nodded silently and looked to the side to collect his thoughts. "Um, America, how did you find out about this movie?"

America grinned. "You won't believe this, but the director of the movie was inspired to make this movie from his author friend from Germany. And just guess who that friend was~?"

"Who?"

"Udo Hofmann. He was a German soldier in World War Two but really liked writing. He was inspired to make the story from a popular horror rumor slash truth he heard going on in one of the concentration camps, can't remember which one, but of course couldn't publish his work. His friend stole his work and came here to publish it. It didn't make it that big, but this has to mean something!"

"What was the rumor?"

"Apparently, there was this soldier that would never stop screaming. Day in and out, he would get tortured, tested, and interrogated, but his voice would never give out. It would crack, scream until hoarse. Weeks on weeks, he would cry, sing in sadness, and call out for someone one knew of," America leaned forward and whispered, "Some even said that he was a mourning spirit and as morbid as it was, it was a sign of hope of sorts."

"Wow," Italy breathed out. America shivered. "I dunno 'bout you, but that just creeps me out. What if it really was a ghost, dude?"

Italy shivered as well, feeling the tingle travel through his spine and to the base of his neck. "Why is it called Jar of Fireflies?" asked Italy after a moment.

America looked at him strangely, as if his question didn't match into the conversation. "I dunno...I mean, the lil' girl liked to collect fireflies but it's only shown around two times in the movie. In the beginnin' and the endin'."

"Oh." And Italy kept it at that.

"Now, don't get all depressed on me Italy. This is a good thing! We finally have a lead — a really good lead too," America said trying to cheer Italy up.

"I guess so."

America continued. "So I couldn't get Gernot for questioning 'cuz that means dealing with Germany's government and all that shit, so —"

"Prussia would have let you, though," Italy said. America looked at Italy surprised. He looked skeptical. "That would've taken too long. 'Sides, I think Prussia is kinda sore from the time I dyed his bird thingy pink and called it a chicken nugget..."

Italy patted America's shoulder in sympathy.

America pointed to the page in front of them. "The Schwartz family is scattered all over the place, it's a real common last name, so it was kinda hard to find anythin'. Everyone was lookin' suspicious. But we did find some relatives an' check this."

Italy looked.

LECHMANN, JULIANA, ELLIOTT

STATUS: CITIZEN

DATE OF CITIZENSHIP: MAY 20 1989

SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER: 035-28-2115

ADDRESS: 4190 WINDING WAY

CITY: LINCOLN

ZIP: 02903

BIRTHDATE: MAY 18 1970

BIRTHPLACE: FRANKFURT, GERMANY

ETHNICITY: GERMAN

RACE: CAUCASIAN

HEIGHT: 5'6 9 (167 CM)

EYES: BLUE

HAIR: BROWN

Italy's breath hitched.

 _"Quite a charmer, aren't you?"_

"Elliot?"

America beamed, not noticing Italy's hesitation. Italy looked at the dead eyes staring back at him. A small square picture, her angular face framed by a thick border of white — a stained white — that displayed her rosy cheeks and disinterest. Elliot. God, when did the world become so small?

"Yeah. Elliot Lechmann. How more German ya can get, right? She has ties back to the Schwartz _and_ Hoffman family."

"How?"

America showed Italy her medical records.

There were a lot of blanks as her roots are deeply embedded in Germany, but somewhere down the tree, the director's family produced a smiling child named Elliot. And through some extensive interviewing of drowsy voices through the phone of lands across the state, the unwilling girl was found through members of blood she did not know of. America, Italy thought, was not a fool skin-deep.

"Wow, this is so great! This is amazing, America!" Italy said hugging America in joy. America patted Italy's head.

"Don' mention it. Ya do know what we're fixin' to do now, right?" America asked with a wide smile as Italy let go.

"Eat Dip-n-dots for all the hard work again?" Italy chirped happily.

"Hell yeah! Darn it, don't distract me with my weakness Italy," America complained, "But no. We're gonna go to this little lady named Elliot."

"Ellie. She goes by Ellie."

"Huh?"

Italy realized his mistake and made a quick excuse. "She looks like an Ellie. Elliot is too stuffy."

"I guess." America stood up. "Come on."

Italy swiped the journal and huddled it to his chest as he ran after America's determined gait out the door. "Wait up! Wait up for me!"

...

 _Jar of Fireflies. $1.00 as the cost...I would have loved to have gone with you, Germany. I would have gone across the blue and made sure your tears were from happiness — not from quotes that hit too close to home — and held your warm hand to make you smile. I think that's all I've wanted. Why do I always realize things once it's too late?_

...

"Austria?"

The keys on the piano smashed down violently, the abrupt sound echoing through the walls and hallway.

"What is it?" Austria asked pushing his glasses up to see the brown-haired woman.

"Well hello to you too," Hungary said with a smile on her lips. Austria flushed a bit at his rude behavior and instead rose from his seat to walk over to the woman looking out his large window. He peered in the same direction as Hungary and saw nothing.

"Hungary?"

Hungary snapped out of her daze and looked back at Austria's concerned face. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking about something."

Austria raised a brow. "And that would be?"

"Don't worry about it," Hungary waved his concern away.

"Did you come here to discuss something?" Austria inquired politely.

Hungary looked at Austria and felt herself sigh. Still, so many years and things do not change. Running water, filmography, artificial fragrances, televisions, medicines, yet that old piano does not. Playing the same tune for centuries.

"I do actually, I came here to talk to you about Germany."

"Germany? Don't tell me you're going to try to find him on your own."

Austria wasn't a bad husband, Hungary mused as he moved closer to her. The people were, she decided.

"Do you doubt me?" She teased.

"No. That's why I'm worried." Austria spoke honestly, not looking ashamed as he would have five hundred years ago.

"Well, I would love to go drag cute, stupid little Germany back to Italy, but my government won't let me." Hungary went from sweet to a passionate venom.

"Mine won't either. Quite annoying really."

"Right? Well, that's not going to stop me anyway," Hungary shrugged and turned around and started walking away. Austria trailed right after her.

Hungary made it to the kitchen and immediately went to make herself some tea. Austria sat down by the window he forgot to close, the sun rays beaming innocently through the small kitchen. It was silent as Hungary prepared the two tea.

"Do you not have an electric kettle?" She asked rummaging for one.

"No, it's not necessary."

"You frugal bastard."

"I will have you know —!"

Hungary hummed a happy tune as she ignored him, her long dress swaying as her thin fingers reached to the cabinets she knew too well despite not visiting often.

Austria saw her flowing curly hair and decided it wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth it to think of the things they used to have that could still be present. Love was not everlasting after all, it was not solid.

Hungary waited by the boiling water impatient and Austria couldn't help but chuckle.

Hungary tilted and turned her head back confused, but Austria kept chuckling sadly. Hungary rolled her eyes and turned around to hide the smile on her face as well. Eventually, the water is boiled and the tea prepared. She sat his cup first on the table then hers. He thanked her and she said you're welcome.

They sip in a comfortable silence and Austria felt the tea run sweetly down his throat. She still knew how to prepare his tea. All the meticulous details he no longer cared so much about.

"I don't want this to be awkward."

Austria sat his tea down with a clank and bored his eyes to Hungary's determined face. When has he ever truly denied her?

"I wasn't aware this felt awkward to you. I didn't feel like this is awkward."

Hungary looked down. "Not right now but later," she said softly.

Now Austria was interested. "And why's that?"

Hungary sipped her tea and hissed. "Damn, this is blasting hot! How do you drink this so nonchalantly?"

"Practice. I can't really tell the difference anymore," he replied with amusement.

Hungary shook her head and pushed the tea away to let it cool a bit. "Just promise me you won't freak out later on, okay?"

"Freak out? What are you trying to say?" Austria questioned worriedly. She was acting more serious than usual, but he supposed her attitude was from the dire situation in Europe at the moment.

"I think I know where Germany is."

Austria choked on his tea. "What! Why haven't you —?!"

"I told you to not freak out, it's just a theory anyway — oh my god, are you okay?" Hungary rushed out of her seat to slap his back to make Austria's face less red.

"I-I'm fine now. I'm fine now — you can stop hitting me — I'm not choking anymore!"

Hungary stopped patting him, and let out a relieved sigh. "Don't scare me like that!" she said as she walked back to her seat.

"As I was saying, I think I know where Germany is — nothing solid, though! I just have this feeling."

"And why didn't you share at the world meeting?"

"Because. I just. I didn't feel like it needed to be shared with the _world._ "

Austria felt warmth in his heart. But she can still share with me, Austria thought happily.

"I suppose that's fair. What's this theory you have?"

"I think Prussia is lying and hiding Germany so he can take over. Dead nation status and all."

Austria waited for Hungary to say, "just kidding!", because that's theory was...very radical.

"You're joking right?"

"No, hear me out! Okay, we both know Prussia is an asshole, right? He's a total ass, and —"

"But he wouldn't do that to Germany."

"Not on purpose no. I never said this was an unwilling action by Germany."

Austria stopped midway from tipping the teacup into his mouth. "So you think Germany wanted this?"

Hungary leaned forward. "Think about it. Germany has been depressed for what, half of this century? Prussia comes back somehow alive, and Prussia wants to feel useful again. Germany is sad, Prussia wants to be something again so why not just give up? Germany doesn't have a lot going against him anyway."

Austria looked completely flabbergasted. Nothing of this sort ever happened! Not even the worst off nations willingly gave up nation status.

"You do remember what we are, right? We are our people, just as our people are we. As...plausible that theory may be, Germany's people would never agree to 'Prussia's' rule."

Hungary's face became even more excited. "But that's where you're wrong. Prussia doesn't have people anymore. Officially at least. We don't really know how he's still alive, right? He should be dead, right? But he's not! Somehow, the cultural tie is still there even though the identification of Prussian has vanished, leaving..."

Austria's eyes widened. "Germans...Eastern Germans but Germans."

Hungary nodded. "That's right. Prussians won't go by Prussians anymore but as Germans. The cultural difference will be so dramatic that Prussia will be able to cling onto life. Take the Italy brothers. Why can't it happen to the German brothers?"

Austria sat his tea down and pushed it away. "Italy is a special case. Prussia is a lot of things, but he would not just blatantly replace Germany."

Hungary looked at Austria with pity for not understanding. "You're not getting it. Germany wants this. Wouldn't that be great Roderich? To disappear from the world we never asked to exist into and continue living with no worry? Germany...he could actually live. Live as a human yet never be it. Sounds like a dream."

Austria felt his tongue go dry. No... Germany wouldn't do that...

"Hungary," he swallowed, "Erzsébet, you're basically telling me Germany committed suicide."

Hungary stirred her cooled tea with sad, lachrymose eyes. "I know."

And suddenly Austria knew why Hungary chose him. Austria sighed.

"This is, to put it bluntly, the worst theory I have ever heard."

Hungary stopped swirling.

"As much as I would like to believe that Prussia is that narrow-minded, you and I know that is not true. He is...complex. I don't know what goes on his head, but I know domination is not in there. Germany is too valuable to him. Prussia would not just leave him depressed on his own to take over a government he wants no part of. Also, Germany would never agree to this. It would damage his pride too largely and despite being depressed, would not give up his duties. It is not in his nature."

"That was what we thought in the thirties as well, but look what happened," Hungary shot back.

A shadow grew into Austria's face. "Hungary —"

"No, don't avoid it, Austria. Forty-seven years, it's only been forty-seven years, Austria."

That number sent a cold wave down Austria's spine. Only forty-seven years and...

"Just what exactly are you trying to say?" he whispered.

Hungary reached out across the table and took Austria's pale hands into her own. "Think about this Austria, Germany goes missing. Prussia doesn't come to any world meetings except the last one. He gives the journal to the world. Italy keeps it and the meeting is dismissed. Italy might find Germany. What will that leave?"

Austria didn't answer. He didn't know.

"Everything we've been trying to hide will finally unravel. Prussia's thrown will finally be abdicated," Hungary said with a bitter smile.

"You mean that," Austria's breath hitched, "Italy will finally figure it out?"

Hungary rubbed his knuckles. "It was inevitable."

"It will crush him — no Hungary, don't make him go through this," Austria pleaded. But Hungary looked as calm as ever, her eyes serene with agony as well.

"The land of Germania. It"s forever cursed, isn't it?"

...

"Do you have to call your brother right now?"

"I miss him! I want to talk to him," Italy said determined to find a pay phone.

"But he's always grouchy, how can you stand him?"

"I ask Spain that all the time too. But he's nice America. A different kind of nice."

America took these words into consideration. "Like I am to England?"

Italy nodded his head rapidly. "Exactly! Except we're not sexual. That's for Big Brother Spain!"

"T.M.I. But I guess you guys are pretty close despite being so polar. Follow me and don' get lost, 'kay?"

"Okay! You walk so fast, hold on!"

America maneuvered through people (people that walked way too fast, Italy thought) swiftly and eventually ended up at a long row of black pay phones by a wall. Women and men alike aligned themselves to insert the currency to hear a voice on the other side. A woman shushed her toddler as she jabbed the loose buttons, smiling when America and Italy stood right next to her. America flashed her a quick smiled and stood behind Italy, and reached into his jacket pocket. The peeling, laminated sticker glared underneath the lights and Italy wondered as to why there were so many bolded words on the paper.

"We're here. Here, I got some quarters for ya. This should last ya 'bout twenty minutes so try to get to the point quick. I'll be at Burger King so don't move from this spot! Kay?" America said.

"Okie dokie America," Italy said as he felt the quarters hit his palm.

"You know how to work this, right?"

"Yep!"

"Cool. I'll be back."

Italy inserted the coins slowly, hearing the metal clink and fall as it went into the small sliver, to the black payphone with large buttons. The people at the airport buzzed behind him, and he felt America's presence gone. He picked up the phone and followed the instructions for international calls. He tapped his foot and bit his lip hoping Romano was home or willing to pick up his landline.

"Hallo?"

That was not Romano.

"Austria? What are you doing in Romano's house? Romano is dating Spain silly."

Austria made an offended noise. "I want no part in Romano's love life! And you called me, you idiot. I am at home with. I am alone."

"I called you? I'm pretty sure I called Romano. I would have remembered. Wait, did I? Oh no, I need to call Romano because I miss him and not you — not that I don't like you. I do —"

"Try to get to the point — _achoo!_ Ah, excuse me, that was — _achoo!_ "

"Are you getting sick?" Italy asked worriedly.

"No, I'm not — _achoo_! I think some kind of idiot just entered my country without keeping his mouth shut."

"Are you dying? I don't want you to die," Italy said clinging to the black phone tighter.

Austria sighed. "No, I am not dying. Some person just crossed my border by foot is all and apparently will not shut up about my name either."

"But I thought we could only sense countries?"

Austria dismissed his confusion with a wave of his hand. "It was probably just Hungary. She was over a while ago."

"Oh. Hi, Hungary! Wait, She's gone. Tell her hi the next she comes over. She loves to come over to your place after all."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Austria responded back.

"I have to go then. America's going to come back soon, and I still need to call Romano so I'm going to have hang up on you. Ciao Austria!"

"Goodbye, Italy."

...

"Why did you say I was gone?"

Austria jumped as he set his old phone down. He whipped his head around to see Hungary confused with brown, paper bags close to her chest.

"Hungary? You're still here?" Austria asked surprised.

"Yes? I went to get some groceries. Your fridge was empty except for that cheese I threw out," Hungary responded with a head tilt.

"So that means you were...then, who was that just now?"

...

"So how was your brother? A grump as always?" America's accent was less noticeable as the plane flew higher up north.

"I accidentally called Austria and couldn't call Romano. I wasted your quarters America, I'm sorry," Italy said regretfully from the window seat.

America stopped mid-sip of his Sprite. "You coulda just asked me for some more. I wouldn't have minded."

"No, it's fine. I'll just call him when we land or something." Italy looked out the window. "I don't think Romano really cares if I call or not."

America slid down in his seat. He had a headache and Italy was barely keeping his eyes open. America was about close his eyes as well, but Italy's soft voice made him open them slightly once more.

"Hey, America."

America hummed to show he was listening.

"What if Germany was kidnapped? Or abducted?"

America was about to assure Italy that of course, that wasn't the case but halted once he realized that he had never thought of that possibility. All this time he had assumed that Germany was just out playing hooky and hiding off on some uncharted island. He had assumed Germany was fine because it was Germany.

"Come on, you know better than anyone else that Germany wouldn't let himself be abducted."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I was being silly." Italy didn't take his eyes off of the window. America bit his lip not liking how quickly the mood shifted.

"Hey, Italy," America said making Italy turn his head. "We'll find Germany. It's not a might, we will. So don't worry 'kay? Germany's a good dude, I bet he's fine."

But how was Italy supposed to respond that Germany wasn't since he was gone?

"I hope so. I really miss him."

"You know, I kinda do too." This interested Italy. America saw Italy perk in attention and continued. "The meetings just aren't the same, ya know? Sure, he was always anal about speech length and who sits next to who, but...it wasn't a world meeting without it. He brought order to the chaos and now it's just depressing."

"I thought you didn't like rules?"

America laughed a bit. "I can't say I don't like 'em, I just don't like following them all the time. You gotta know when to cut loose, you know?" America grinned, "Plus, it's always funny how red Germany can get before he blows."

"Germany does get annoyed easily," Italy agreed.

"No kidding! Sometimes, when he gets so annoyed, he'll run his hands through his hair, and the gel will come out and I swear that he looks exactly like The —"

"..."

"..."

"Like?"

America laughed forcefully, the sound brittle in his own chest. "Oh, nothing! Nothing to worry about Italy dude!"

Italy eyed him confused. "Okay?"

"I was just gonna say he does that hair gel thing and looks like, ah, um, a model. Yeah! A model. Just bam! Instant, um, you know." America wanted to punch himself in the face.

Italy's cheeks flushed a deep color before he could help it. Italy did always tell Germany that he looked better with his fringe down, but Germany didn't care about looks. (The times when Germany did look in the mirror, his eyes lingering faintly for too long, not enough to be considered vanity, but an awed expression of what stared back at him.) Germany always did tell Italy he felt rather plain despite Italy's reassurances.

America watched Italy squirm and looked dazed and wondered if he broke the smaller nation with a revelation every other country knew of. "Hey, Italy. You okay?"

Italy didn't respond, his haze in assumptions in worries. Suddenly he stopped squirming and sat still. Very, very, still.

"Do a lot of people think that Germany's a model?"

"Well, yeah. The dude's muscles are practically see through when he wears suits, which is the only time I ever really see him, or anyone. He's really tall. He's got a really defined jawline and just has the look, you know? Oh, and a nice nose. Very important!" America didn't notice Italy shrink within the leather seat as he counted the reasons off on his fingers.

"Oh. You sure like Germany," Italy commented with a side-eye.

"I can admire good genetics," America said with a shrug.

Italy then kept his eyes trained to the never changing sky. Clouds, clouds, they are through clouds full of white and blue.

Italy looked back at America and smiled the best smile he could. America smiled back and turned his head around once he heard the snack cart come around with large, plastic bags to throw away the cans of soda that littered America's tray.

Italy fixed his gaze back into the small rounded window and for once hated the color blue.

...

"America, hey, wake up. Hey, wake up."

America felt himself being prodded and swatted the hand away. "Go 'way...'M sleepin', 'Ngland..."

"It's not England, It's me. You need to see this!"

America blearily woke up, his eyes severely blurry and unfocused. He yawned and stretched his legs, looking like a sloth. He took off his glasses and wiped them from the condensation of his breath, the cloth rubbing lazily onto Texas. He placed them back on his nose and looked to his right.

"I thought you would want to read the journal with me," Italy said as he looked down to the beige paper.

America's face lit up. "Oh man, I don't think I've even had a good look at this. How far are ya?"

"I haven't read anything new," Italy replied back antsy to begin.

"Here, I'll hold it."

Italy didn't move.

"Come on, it's not like I'm going to run away with it."

Italy still didn't budge.

"This isn't going to be like meeting room, I swear. Just trust me, okay?"

"Okay," Italy said reluctantly as he gently handed the journal to America.

Italy could see America's excitement; the journal more of a toy to him than an artifact. America started reading aloud quietly enough for them to hear, but not enough to disturb the other passengers.

 **"02. December 1919**

 _ **The war is over. It's finally over. It's finally over.**_

 _ **Italy has left, although grudgingly. He hugged me and cried as he left to go to France and the others. America doesn't seem to like me. That's fine, I don't like him either."**_

"Not like was putting it lightly," America commented out of habit.

 _ **"I don't know how I should feel about this war ending. A part of me is amazed that an ending could even be achieved. It is shocking, yet a part of me doesn't feel a thing, my mind still in the sky alone. The Great War it is called. The war to end all war...**_

 _ **Versailles. It is beautiful. Walking down the Hall of Mirrors along with Brother, Austria, and Hungary to meet England and France made me feel childish. Every other nation looked grim — relieved, melancholic. Not curious like I. What a beauty Versailles is. Clean, tall, archaic, luxurious. Its architecture is stunning. Rich history ingrained into its golden walls. What lies. Where is your Sun now France?**_

 _ **I can trust you journal, right? Brother doesn't seem to understand so maybe you will.**_

 _ **I want a ballroom. I want a large, ornate ballroom — one with a giant chandelier and too many candles so a blushing maiden's dress will catch on fire, and then laugh daintily with a drink in her hand as she bursts into flames.**_

 _ **I want a room full of people, all dressed up in their best clothes happy and warm. The men will stumble for a lady's courtesy and the women will smile amused, all too ready for a laugh not fueled by forced amusement. Music, dancing, happiness, the hands of time never stopping. I long to take an alluring, blurry face with unladylike short hair and ask for a dance, the woman's smiling face smudged by the time I reopen my eyes. I want it so bad it makes me ache.**_

 _ **I told brother I want to dance. As we exited, Brother muttering angrily and desperately wishing to kick an angel statue, I saw an entrance to an old ballroom. I told him I wanted to dance. I asked him why he never taught me how to dance — the other countries know.**_

 _ **He looked at me and asked me why I was thinking about something as stupid as dancing. I didn't need to know, he told me. It was a useless skill, he said. I asked him why he knows, then. He smiled amused at something and ruffled my hair. He sighed and looked strangely pleased. 'Please don't change,' he said to me.**_

 _ **I told him I wouldn't and Brother stopped that weird, stomp-walk of his."**_

Italy had his eyes closed and was listening closely to America's voice — how it varied when he read things he did not like, how it got more excited when he was reading new information that amused him, how it flowed to a beat. Italy opened his America's voice suddenly stopped.

He turned his head in question. He looked down at America's large hands clutching onto the covers tight — no care, no grace, no consideration! "Why did you stop? Is that it?" Italy asked wondering why the entry was so short this time.

"Ah, no. We have a problem, my dude."

"Wha —?"

And suddenly the journal was thrusted into Italy's face.

"Look."

Italy took the journal and set it to eye level and quickly read over the words America just did. He flipped the page and saw a page torn out from the spine. The rip was not subtle, oh no. The page rip was jagged and torn out to make small, sharp little shark teeth resemblances. It was not a flimsy tear, an accident like America's bumbling hands in the meeting room, but a deliberate act of defilement. A good four pages were gone.

Italy took a quick deep breath in before he could help it. "W-Who did this?" Italy rubbing his thumb over the dull edges of the torn out paper.

"I don't know man. It wasn't me! It wasn't me, see? Ripped out so don't go all mafia on me."

"I know it wasn't you."

"Okay good because you can get real possessive and stuff so."

Italy looked at the last word before the page abruptly cut off. The words before that were scribbled out so darkly and heavily that not a word could be made out. Italy could see the faint shape of numbers underneath and he hated Germany's cleverness at the moment. Because with those numbers scribbled on top of the words, deciphering the sentences were made almost impossible. 09 13091919 0920011225...0114141525054...1309192001110...0605051...121 —

 _ **"But the one thing I wish the most is for —"**_

It cuts off there, and Italy wanted to scream.

America took the journal back before Italy could freak out even further. He flipped some pages, Italy not missing the way America not so discreetly scanned the pages like a sponge before flipping quickly enough to be considered searching. He kept flipping, and Italy watched on confused as his turning became more rapid.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for the rest," he answered with certainty in his words.

"... Hey wait, I don't think there's going to be more. Something must have happened to it. It's an old book. America. America —"

"It has to be here!" America's shout gained the attention of the whole first class sector, and Italy cowered away from the glares of beady eyes and wrinkled scowls.

"Maybe you just, just dropped one. Please don't get all mad and scary," Italy said as America's form became increasingly more impatient. It struck Italy dry at how unfazed America was flipping through brown stains of blood and scorch marks with his calloused thumbs. As if the pages were some kind of historical document to analyze A,B,C,D,E from a multiple choice test.

"America," Italy began trying to sound like he meant something for once that wasn't pasta or women, or whatever else Europe thought of him as.

"I found it," America breathed out amazed at himself as well. "I found it!" America's eyes twinkled as his finger pointed to the very page that continued with a darker black smudge. It was a fragile, ghost-like page that was somehow salvaged from America's incident back In New York City.

Italy stared shocked as well and couldn't help the creeping smile rising on the apples of his cheeks. He didn't need to say anything for America to immediately launch into his rhythmic reading voice.

 _ **"I shouldn't have ripped those pages out from a fit of rage. Everything is so expensive as it is.**_

 _ **I'm back to poverty. Back to planting and never seeing the seed grow. It's all so tiring it makes me wonder what I was excited for. The German Empire. I used to believe I didn't deserve such a title. Only people like Brother, England, and France had to right to say such words, but I see how wrong I was.**_

 _ **No one deserves such a title. No one is great. No one is almighty and maybe my beloved God isn't either. I actually laugh at my first entry. Prussia? The devil? No, no. The ability to extrude flames at the convenience of a trigger, kill in the night with no wound from just a toxic inhale is the sign of a true devil. Yet, we call them 'war heroes'. Defying gravity, creating machines of destruction for mass murder and calling the genocide a 'victory' is surely not proof enough.**_

 _ **I do not regret creating what I did. War was upon me, so I responded. I do not know why the Allies looked upon me so shocked."**_

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you had fucking tanks and airplanes?" America said sarcastically.

Italy did not like America's agitated air. He seemed almost jealous.

 _ **"I suppose all that time bored and lonely paid off as England and France had to rush off and steal my inventions. Not so lucky are we Austria and Hungary, we lost.**_

 _ **And now those gluttonous pigs are sitting at the table signing papers, claiming what is there's when nothing is ours. Yugoslavia, I sincerely hope you will make it out okay."**_

"Yeah, not the smartest move they did. It sure bit them in the ass later, hah!" America spoke as if he had no part in the separation of the frowned upon south-eastern European neighbors. As if he did not sign with the heavy, metallic pen the lives of thousands of people who do not understand — never understood why, just why it always had to be them. God, it seemed, sat upon a throne made of cold leather.

 _ **"I cannot complain much. I'm still here aren't I? Brother is here, I am here. Austria and Hungary are here, and it pains me to see Hungary and Austria be separated the way they had to be. I am green, but even I can see that there is something else there other than political interest. Hungary left smiling with shaking lips, but I wonder if she would either frown or cry in the mirror, if at all.**_

 _ **I feel strangely calm. I am too tired to be angry or bitter like Brother. I hear whispers, the same voices thinking they're discreet, of pity and aggravation towards me. Some offering me pity for being so young and having to enter 'the worst war of all time', and others sneering at me for simply being me,"**_

The writing becomes sloppy and rushed.

 _ **"I have to go now. France and his coo-coo clocks."**_

"That's it."

Italy sat and let the words truly set in. He didn't have much time as America started speaking again.

"Are all his entries this deep?"

"Yes?"

America hummed and flipped back to the previous entry, scanning the paper to see if Italy's word held true. America whistled. "You weren't kidding, all of these are like this. I would've never guessed."

"Why is that?"

America shrugged. "I dunno, I didn't see him being the deep type."

"I didn't either. He never told me this stuff," Italy said as America handed the journal back to him.

"Oh yeah? I woulda thought you knew most of this stuff," America remarked surprised.

Italy wanted to question America how close he thought he was to Germany. He was there at the world meetings. He was there to see how easily he was brushed off by Germany with the promises of later and eventually. America should know.

"Well, that was interesting. This, plus the girl, just has to tell us where Germany is."

"Hey, hey. Did you see something weird in the journal? A clue or something?" Italy asked.

America thought, his mind reeling with memories that even Germany didn't have. "I don't think so, I didn't see anything suspicious. Why? Did you see something?"

"No, it's just that Germany's really smart, and I thought...maybe he was writing in a weird code or something. I guess I was wrong."

America took the journal and looked through the entry as he spoke. "Lemme see. I don't think so, everything was pretty straightforward from the looks of it. I don't know much about him though so I can't say much. You on the other hand."

Italy looked at America confused. "What about me?"

America rolled his eyes. "Sure, you don't know. Really funny, Italy," America said lightly. America saw Italy clutch onto his cross in genuine confusion and muttered, "Oh, shit. You don't know."

"What don't I know? What does everyone know?" Italy asked desperately.

"Nothing! Nothing! You don't know so it must not be true, so just forget I said anything, okay?" America gesticulated wildly to keep away the approaching Italy. Italy grasped onto America's Bomber jacket, feeling the old cracks of leather through his fingertips as he clutched lightly to America's elbow to make him stop flailing.

"Please, America. If you know something about Germany, please tell me," Italy said softly with complete seriousness. America saw Italy's eyes and for the first time, America realized that Italy hasn't been keeping his eyes shut. Those same aged, amber eyes boring into his.

America's eyes softened. "Okay, Italy. I guess I can tell you, but don't take offense to this okay? I just heard this through the grapevine, so I didn't know if it was true but everyone always kinda just assumed, and you guys made it hard to not just make it fact so it was really surprising to hear that Germany just up and disappeared. Conspiracies have been floating around, some really stupid and some other pretty good, but apparently, some countries think that you, ah. How should I put this? Got a little jealous to put it in simple terms."

Italy's face spoke enough for him as a response.

"Yeah, I know. Of course, you wouldn't do that! You wouldn't go all yandere and hide Germany away because of a squabble, but you know. It's been almost a week and a half since the meeting and the countries are talking. Oh, wait. You don't even know what I'm talking about! Dur," America chuckled, "Apparently everyone thinks this is either, A: a bad breakup and too over dramatic. B: a real threat and Germany has been abducted or something like that. C: Prussia is secretly evil and wants to take over because of again, jealousy. But everyone likes the relationship one better."

"People think that me and, and Germany are dating?" Italy's face tinted a bit before it fading away and returning to its neutral color of paleness. Italy looked pensive and decided that it was a valid assumption.

America nodded. "Yup. We kinda just assumed that you guys had a thing for a long time, and, you know. You being all clingy didn't help much."

America leaned closer. "What we did find weird is that Germany would get this flash in his eyes, as if he were physically pained to be around you back in the sixties. It smoothened out over time and we just guessed things were great in Pleasantville once again. We kinda figured that you guys were cool cucumbers in public, cuddles in the dark kind of relationship."

Relationship. Relationship. Relationship. America said it. The one word that made Italy so confused, the same word that made him look down and despise the buzzing in his ears.

"N-No. Germany and I were never a thing," Italy paused, "At least, I don't think so."

America raised a brow. "You don't know? How does that work?"

America had to understand that Germany and the book are one of the same. You read it, but never truly understand despite the blunt words. The cover, smooth but with ridges and indents. Germany had a deep voice, yet it spoke words that didn't hold much value.

"I-I don't know! Apparently, me and Germany are dating?"

"So you are! Russia owes me twenty bucks!"

Italy immediately denied it. "No, no! We aren't! We aren't dating!"

"But you just said you are?"

"I was confused! I-I never said we were like that."

"So you are?"

"Are what?"

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"You just said you weren't dating him!" America exclaimed with knitted brows.

"I'm not! I thought you meant that I was sure about not dating Germany!" Italy said back hurriedly.

"But. But," America faltered, "Do you want to?"

Italy froze. He sat rigid in his blue seat.

"Hey, man, don't start crying. Italy? Are ya listening? Oh shit."

Italy didn't realize his eyes once again betrayed him with those useless tears. He dabbed his cheek and saw the infamous water droplet. His jaw felt painfully tight, and Italy wanted to grind his teeth to make the pain go away. Italy sighed and wiped his eyes. "I'm okay, I don't know what got over me," Italy said shakily.

"Naw, it's okay. Germany means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

And maybe that's the problem, Italy thought. Maybe if he didn't have a heart that opened so quickly he wouldn't have to always be this way.

"Yeah...He means a lot to me..."

Italy sniffed, and America decided that it wasn't a good time to comment any further. He had said enough. America instead slid down his seat and puffed a breath out, a wisp of hair from his fringe flying up before falling down.

"This is your captain speaking to report that we will be arriving in Lincoln, Rhode Island in about thirty minutes. Please keep seatbelts fastened until instructed to do so. Thank you for choosing Delta Air Lines as your flight today and enjoy your stay."

The mic was then cut off and the flight attendants rolled their carts out like a well-oiled machine. The children in the back were finally getting restless, and America looked relieved.

They didn't speak to each other for some time, the silence not necessarily awkward or oppressive, simply understood. Italy decided to talk once he stepped out on the shaky iron plate to the terminal. Italy breathed in the air that is Rhode Island and saw America appreciate it as well. How something once so new can become dull so fast was amazing to Italy.

A cool wind passed them both. The sun was shy in the horizon, some tourists already taking pictures with their blocky, gray cameras.

Italy and America walked into the terminal, the sound of luggage and chattering humans echoing through the black funnel. It accompanied them as their soft footsteps padded through the walls. The building was warm, and Italy felt America stop. He stopped as well and turned around.

"It's been awhile since I've been to little Rhody. The first to declare independence, the last to ratify. Ah, good old Rhode Island."

Italy tilted his head, his bags blocking his vision of America's melancholic stance slightly. "If there is a place we will get answers, it's going to be Rhode Island," America said with his hands in his jacket pockets.

Italy smiled. "Yeah?"

America nodded eagerly. "Yeah. Come on. This isn't going to solve on its own."

No. No, it will not, but with America standing by the window, people speaking with the same accent as he, Italy could have sworn he saw a flicker of doubt.

But maybe that was just Italy.

 **...**

 **Where is your Sun now, France?** — _**Germany was alluding to King Louis XIV, The Sun King, as literally everything in France revolved around this guy during** **this time. Louis XIV was really quite an interesting absolute monarch.**_

 **Dip-N-Dots as America's Weakness —** _ **It wouldn't be the nineties without a Dip-n-Dots reference.**_

 **...**

 **I was sick this week and skidded up a hill in a thunderstorm with two cars behind me today. How I am alive, I don't know ._.**

 **Okay, you guys know what I'm going to say next. Thanks for reading and leave a review if you liked. Thank you so much to those who are still reading and liking as well! Your support really does mean a lot ^^**


	8. The Rolling Hills We Saw That Day

Chapter Eight — The Rolling Hills We Saw That Day

...

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Italy asked as he skipped over a stone, his shoes caked with mud.

America took out a crumpled piece of paper and didn't shudder when a passing wind hit them both. Italy shivered, despising the cold winds, as America looked up and down from the paper and to the bold numbers on the red brick in front of them. The sun was out, and America had to squint as he walked closer to the quaint little house with quaint little flowers. A beautiful garden it was, Bachelor Buttons and Lavenders to greet them underneath the graying sky.

"Looks like it. 109, Wallis Street. Should be it. Come on, let's see if she's home."

Italy and America walked up the cobbled path and saw America smile a tad when seeing a small American flag sticking out from the garden right by a lovely Lavender flower. Another wind passed by, and the wind chimes sang throughout the sleepy neighborhood.

America stood by the entrance, and Italy stood by America's right as his large fist pounded on the old, wooden door. It was silent, a car zooming by behind them, when a dog started barking. Italy jumped violently and America put a hand on his shoulder. He pointed to a large, black dog behind a fence to the right of the house. The dog kept barking until someone from the house snapped at it to be quiet.

America knocked again and puffed a breath out. Italy's stomach just dropped further, the brick settling deeper and deeper into the pool of anxiety.

"Maybe she's not home. I didn't see a car in the driveway."

"It could be in the garage," America said unfazed as he knocked louder on the poor, old door.

Finally, the door opened slowly. The old, wooden door opened to reveal a yawning Elliot, hair a mess and attire even messier. She leaned by the door and snapped her eyes open when she saw America's broad stance, eyes of hardened crystal with an air of superiority Italy did not know America could execute. America's demeanor changed just as quickly as those winds—warm and calming only to be fooled by the sharpness as the sun set.

"Ah, hello. What can I do for you?" She said with her accent very noticeable but not fearful.

America grabbed a badge from his pocket and flashed it to the woman's face. "Agent Alfred F. Jones here with partner Feliciano Vargas under the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are Elliot J. Lechmann, correct?"

Italy could understand why her face contorted into one of skepticism. They did not look like the F.B.I.—America still in his bomber jacket and Italy in a black long sleeve shirt.

And suddenly her blue eyes flickered to Italy. Her chapped lips parted in surprise and Italy could almost feel her heart beat faster with confusion. She clutched onto the door tighter, her manicured nails scraping the cold material. "Yes, I am Elliot Lechmann. What business do I have with the F.B.I.?"

America smiled. "Hopefully, not much. We just need to ask you some questions and then we'll be on our way," America said putting away his badge, Elliot's eyes following his lethargic movements like a hawk.

Elliot stood still by the door, her hands unclenching from her solid grip on the squeaking door. She sighed and opened the way.

"Very well then. Enter, enter," she said with little resistance.

America entered first with ease while Italy hesitated to intrude the woman's clean house. A couch was naturally where they gravitated toward and there Elliot sat with hands in her lap, a face desperately wanting to scream what is going on! But she kept her face as blank as a young adult could and instead tried to sit tall with her loose gray shirt and shorts that revealed too much pale skin. America sat down, and Italy inhaled the warm scent of an apple pie as he sat adjacent to America.

Italy almost threw up.

America cut straight to the chase. "Elliot Lechmann. No known relatives, citizen since 1989, originally from Germany and works for Delta Airlines as a flight attendant. Has no idea why the F.B.I. is after her and is assumed innocent," America said with a smile that did not calm her nerves.

"Now, does the name Ludwig Beilschmidt ring any bells?"

Elliot looked pensive. Her eyes looked away from the two men in an effort to recall such a name. The name was dry on her tongue. Where has she heard a Ludwig before...

"That name...it sounds familiar. I'm trying to think...I've heard it before, yes."

"Where," America demanded.

She jolted slightly and pressed together her lips. "My sister, she has spoken about him. Or is it my cousin? Yes, I think it is my 'cousin.' I've heard his name float around the house sometimes. I don't know who he is. I've always assumed he was someone unimportant, an old family friend, you know?"

"I wish," America muttered as he scanned the kitchen behind the shifting Elliot.

"What do you know about Ludwig?" America asked.

"What do I know about him...not much, really. Are you sure we're talking about the same Ludwig? That name is pretty common. It's like trying to pinpoint a John Smith in this country."

America seemed a little stumped. John Smith was a horrible name to have in his place. "Um. He has blonde hair. Really buff. Is around twenty years old. Blue eyes. Looks like he can snap your neck at any moment and never smiles?"

Elliot sat unamused. "I know some people are unkind to foreigners, but to stereotype like that is rude. Not all Germans are like that."

Italy almost wanted to cry and start laughing. That was what they were! Right on the money!

"But that's how he is! You are the one who conglomerated him in this image of stereotyping," America defended.

Elliot shifted her bare feet a bit. "If you know how he looks like, why are you asking me? Doesn't the F.B.I. have great equipment and what not?"

"Ah, don't worry about that. Just answer the question, Elliot," America said lightly.

Elliot stared. She then sighed. "No. I have never seen him in person." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don't think anyone has actually. He's kinda just a story throughout the house. My mom was cleaning out the attic one day when she was younger and found a picture of some guy in a cap and tank top but I don't know if that's this Ludwig fellow you're looking for. It was in black and white and looked as though it had gone through a nasty fire. On the back, it said: To Italy. I guess it never made it to Italy considering it was in France."

Italy's breath hitched. He immediately leaned forward. "Do you still have this photo?" Elliot looked at him surprised as if she had forgotten he had a voice.

"I'm sure my mother still has it. Let's see...what else did it say since you're probably going to ask that next. If I remember right from what my mom told me, it said: To Italy. It's fine. I understand. Or was it he understands? My memory's going bad on me...I'm pretty sure it could have also been I am where he stands...ah, I'm getting the wording confused now. I didn't think it was important."

America was jotting down every word she said. "Which one do you think it was?"

"I'm pretty sure it was the first one. It definitely said it's fine. I'm certain of that. That was the most legible parts of the handwriting."

America snapped his eyes from his notepad sharply. "And how did your mother gain this photo? You have relatives that served?"

Elliot nodded. "Most definitely. If you live in Germany, having a grandparent that didn't serve is just...weird. But my grandparents —from my mom's side of the family —were part Polish and served under the German forces. They were murdered. I never knew them. My parents didn't get too either. They were babies." Elliot suddenly touched her temple. "Hey wait a minute. They served under a commander named Beilschmidt. In one of their letters, they wrote about how great he was at leading his troops and how much of an honor it was to be under his command...is this the same man you speak of? Becuase he is dead."

"He's dead," Elliot breathed out again surprised, her eyes getting wide for a second. Her bright, brown eyes stayed that way until she shook her head. Her chest rose up and down the same by the time her eyes met America's keen ones.

"What year did your grandparents die, Elliot?" America asked.

Elliot furrowed her brows doing the math in her head quickly. "In '42. My mom was only a couple months old when they died."

"Really now. So you did have information about the suspect."

"Yes, I suppose I did," Elliot said not quite sure what she was saying. "Even if this Ludwig guy is the one you're looking for was somehow still alive today, he would be old and rotting away in a cell. He was one of the best and highest ranking officials under the military branch back then. There was no way that he could have come out alive or unscathed."

America wanted to smile and tell her just how wrong she was. "Your memory is pretty great. How did you know all of this?"

Elliot flushed. "Looking through old stuff has always interested me. I guess I just have a good memory. That's how I've always been. Especially in history. I don't know. Dates just stick."

"Well. Aren't we lucky," America said. "Anything else? You said it was in France. Is your mother French?"

Elliot nodded again. "Yes. My mother is French and my father German."

"How about your dad's side of the family. What about them?"

"There's nothing special to say about them. My grandparents served. They died."

"I see...And Holger Amster? Know him?" America asked. Italy looked at America questionably.

"He's my 'cousin' in law's brother."

"What do you mean by 'cousin'," America asked making the same air quotes as Elliot. Elliot pursed her lips trying to think of the right way to explain it.

"Ah, okay. There's my sister, Elena. She's married to Gernot. Then there's Gernot's parents. Gernot's mom has a brother. His name is Ulrich. He has a wife. And they had a child. Two actually. Cornelia and Holger. The Amster family. So I don't really know what to call them," Elliot grew sheepish, "I'm pretty far off the family tree. All the juicy details are probably better found in the Amster side of the family."

"What does Ulrich do?" Italy asked feeling something in the back of his mind stir.

"Um, I'm pretty sure he's a doctor. A very good one too, if I'm not mistaken. I'm not too sure but I do know that they are rich..."

"Do they know more about Ludwig?" America asked sketching the family tree with ovals to keep track who is who. The only reason Elliot is related and relevant it seemed was because she had very loose ties to the actual important people. She was the only one in America, and it would have been nice if her sister was the prime suspect, but America knew that things really didn't really happen like that. It was a miracle they even found her at all.

"Yes. I visited them once. Don't ask why I just did and it was awkward as hell. But anyway, the topic came back to World War Two somehow and I said that name and they all kinda just clammed up and hissed at us. Like actually hissed at us to be quiet or get out." Elliot crossed her legs. "It was quite a reaction."

"So these Amsters hold a lot of hate to him? Why is that?" America asked tilting his head.

She shrugged. "If I knew, I would tell you. I would like to know as well. It would have saved me a lot of glaring."

"Tell us about Cornelia and Holger then."

Her eyes darted to the left and right. "His sister is a little on the other side of the fence if you know what I mean. Gernot, he only works in the pharmacy. Cornelia, his sister, works as the main scientists for the laboratory that makes the said medicines. I met her once, and I don't know. I just heard that name from her spoken with hatred and my parents kept nodding their heads." She leaned back.

"Though, now that I think about it, I think that they were just trying to make it seem like they knew what they were talking about. I doubt that they actually knew, or cared, what was going on."

"Do you perhaps know where we can contact this Cornelia? The company she works for or even Holger?"

Eliot shook her head. "I do not. I should, but I don't."

America hummed unconvinced.

"Agent Jones...may I ask a question?" She asked looking towards Italy.

"Depends what."

"A clarification of sorts. You see, I did not see a badge with 'Agent Vargas'."

Italy froze. He glanced nervously to America. America kept his expression cool, his eyes unwavering and neutral.

"Your eyes must've been mistaken. He showed you his badge," America said. Italy would have believed it; his tone spoke nothing but fact, but now that's troubling isn't it. If America can make such a blatant, false statement sound thorough, just how trustworthy is word alone.

Elliot looked quite unamused. "I do not have bad memory. I would have remembered," she fluttered her eyelashes, "you don't mind showing me, just to be sure, right?"

America clenched his jaw and cursed in his head. Italy wasn't suave enough to pull a fake ID and couldn't lie to save his life. Elliot sat smugly, waiting. Her eyes challenged to defy her, to somehow prove her wrong.

Italy slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his driver's license. "See, I am an F.B.I. member." Italy said it with such certainty and thoroughness that Elliot looked conflicted. She squinted and saw yes, it indeed was just a driver's license with Italy's cheery face smiling to the camera. It wasn't even in English! America didn't know whether to cheer or facepalm.

"Isn't that just a driver's license—?" She asked quite sure it was just that.

"It's the updated model of a badge. He's new," America butted in with absolute seriousness, his mouth desperately wanting to twitch into a smile.

Elliot looked ready to protest, but America didn't let her have any time to. "ANYWAY, back to our regularly scheduled program! After that little _misunderstanding_ , are you ready to answer truthfully now?"

"He is not an agent. It clearly says —!" Elliot began.

"Ms. Lechmann, please. Do not make this harder than it needs to be."

America had a way of making people feel bad about themselves that Italy was always appalled at how quick their faces would morph into one of guilt. She crossed her legs and tilted her chin up.

"I have nothing else to tell you."

America leaned forward, his broad shoulders visible even by Italy as he placed his elbows on his knees. The light flickered—a tinkering, dull light—as the annoying water continued to drip from the small kitchen.

"Elliot Lechmann. I know, that you know that we know what you know."

Elliot twitched a smile. "Yeah?"

"Yes. We know exactly what you've been hiding. You think you could have hidden this from the U.S. government? Something this lethal? We can overlook a wrong date, maybe even not mention your parents, but this?"

"America, what are you talking about?" Italy whispered in his ear confused. America didn't respond as he was too busy seeing Elliot pale and freeze. She swallowed and licked her lips.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about."

America chuckled. "Right. Sure you don't. And I'm sure that you _conveniently_ forgot to mention this in your tale."

She bit her tongue. Some part of her hoped that the Italian would drag the American away—his loud, bubbly laughter chasing the evil away to the door and to the bitter air of Rhode Island. She did nothing wrong. They knew nothing—!

"Again. You're talking to a clueless person."

America chuckled again and got up abruptly from his seat, the fluffy couch cushion inflating once again from the loss of weight. He dusted off his pants (there was no dust, silly, silly America) and motioned Italy to do the same. America smiled at Elliot.

"Welp. Let's go," America said sending Italy a strange wave of discomfort once those words left his mouth. The name Vargas—it was just far too odd to hear that from America.

"We're done?" Italy asked trailing after America, glancing back at the perplexed (relieved) Elliot. America shoved his hands in his bomber jacket, his stance more of a bored teenager than the detective role he pretended to be just moments ago.

"Yup. Got all the information I needed. It's clear what happened here."

Italy looked back to the stone-faced blonde and felt his breath shorten again. There she was, sitting on that plain red couch with that annoying faucet in the background with even plainer walls. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders—brown, oh so brown with eyes dull when they should be clear. He felt offaly evil...leaving her there to ring her thumbs and stare at their backs in nervousness.

America tilted his head towards her. "Good day Ms. Lechmann."

America let himself out, and Italy couldn't help but look back again. He had to say something—he had to ask her things! But he didn't—he shuffled out behind America. It wasn't bright outside, the sun still behind those weeping clouds, yet Italy still squinted. It was so bright compared to the dim beige walls, the natural fluorescence flooding the door frame.

And like that, America whistled as he closed the door. The little red house underneath the blue sky with wilting white flowers. Italy breathed in.

That had been the most undramatic interrogation he had ever seen.

"What's up with you?" America asked.

"I thought that. I mean. That was not what I expected."

America tilted his head. "What did you expect? To bust in with guns and put duct tape on her or something?" he said with mirth.

"I thought you would ask her more things."

America whistled as he strolled down the cobbled path, watching another car fly by the road, obviously following the twenty miles per hour speed limit.

"Just because we're out of the house doesn't mean she's out of the game."

"What?"

America grinned. "Two can play it that game, Italy dude. Two can play it that game."

"But I don't get—"

"Oh! Also, good save back there! Had me be worried there. You could have been kicked out."

Italy relished in the praise. "Really? Really? I didn't think it would work, but it did."

America laughed a bit. "Yeah man, I didn't think she would notice but she is a citizen of mine." His eyes looked off into the distance, and Italy felt now was a good time to ask the bothersome question he's had.

"Hey, America. Why did you say she was lying? She looked pretty honest to me."

"Yeah, but did you see how she froze?"

Italy scratched his head. "I guess. I don't get why she lied to you."

"You ask that and then are shocked when you found out why. Everyone has a reason to lie."

"What are you going to do now? What was the bad thing she did?"

"I don't know! I made it up. Neat trick, huh?" America replied back with a chipper smile.

"Wait, you don't know what she did? She could be innocent after all?" Italy asked. America wagged his finger. "It's a cool thing, right? Like I said, everyone's got something to hide. If you make it seem as if you know what it is, that person is suddenly all nerves. I personally don't know what she did, but! Because she reacted that way, I now know there is something!"

Italy really didn't understand America and his backward way of thinking.

"But we're back at square one."

America denied that. "Not really, we're actually farther than I thought we would be. Her opening the door was a good start. We didn't have to bring her to a station and cuff her down to a table. She answered the best she could, and we have more information now. Especially this Cornelia girl. Wonder what's that about."

America kept walking and turned away from the passageway but instead to around the house. Italy followed America, passing the black trash can to a small window.

Italy was following America's lead when America clutched onto Italy's sleeve harshly and dragged him down forcefully to the ground. Italy shrieked—his knees falling to the mud caked patches of sporadic grass. America slapped a hand on Italy's mouth and shushed him. Italy looked at his fearful expression through the window reflection and saw America peer at him pleadingly and hurriedly. America removed his hand and made a finger on his lip gesturing quietness.

America's left hand was still on Italy's small back, the hand that didn't know what gentle is apparently, and suddenly Italy heard voices through the thin window.

"I don't know if...I don't see a car."

It was Elliot. She was talking on the phone with someone.

"They said they were the F.B.I...didn't look like it...I hope...good prank, right?"

"Who do you think she's calling?" Italy whispered.

"I dunno, we're gonna find out," America whispered back excited.

"Of course, of course, quick...Money will still be sent..."

Italy and America whipped their heads and gave each other a look. They inched closer to the wall.

"A miracle you get to talk to me, and so soon!"

America and Italy could hear everything now, even if it did mean breathing right by the plastic wall.

"I really don't know why they came. The government's never really noticed before." Her breath hitched. America looked like he was about to explode.

"N-No. D-Don't say that. _Don't you dare say that!"_ She switched over to German, yelling desperately into the phone. Italy didn't understand much, but he could tell her tone was rather panicked and distraught. America understood every word.

 _"They're not going to find you, okay? They're...They're not going to...because! You know that he was imm —"_

Italy could taste the anxiety, the fear so thick and heavy present while America leaned in closer, not sure if she went quiet or if he missed something.

 _"You're not going to die, okay! Ludwig—"_

Italy lowered his head when he heard Germany's name and clutched his palm down on the ground—feeling the hard dirt go underneath his nails and stain his short white tips brown.

 _"That was decades ago. A different time, a different era! They're not going to — "_

 _"...I know what they did to him! I know! But listen, listen, they can't prove anything with you. Your record is clean, totally normal. Ludwig was different, and you know it."_

America sent Italy a smug look.

Italy didn't feel satisfaction. He didn't need to see what was happening. He could imagine her pacing around in her small kitchen and looking at the same old things that looked suddenly different because life was funny like that. Things that brought her sense were being too familiar and it couldn't be made sense of what exactly she was expecting. With the closeness of a voice that was not physically there, Italy could only send her his deepest sympathies.

 _"Please...I'm sorry. Please don't cry — I know I mean a lot to you, I know. I know just..._ Yes, I understand. I had to tell her something urgent..."

"...Yes. Yes...When will I be able to visit her again?"

"... Right. I see," her voice cracked as she breathed out, "Thank you. Please make sure she's okay..." she forced a soft laughter out of her before she hung up.

 _"AGH!"_ She screamed and kicked the cabinet. _"Scheiße!"_

America raised a brow and looked to Italy to make sure he heard the same thing. Italy made the same funny face and looked back to the window.

"This is not good...This is not good...Fuck, what am I going to do?"

"How about telling us," America sang.

It was silent in the house and for a moment Italy thought she went to another room. They waited. Somewhere in the back, someone was mowing a lawn and a bicycle was being ridden. A bell was rung from the bike. It was a normal day, a normal day for the world and little Rhode Island.

"..."

"..."

"Do you think she's gone now?" Italy asked itching to get up.

"Let's wait a bit more," America responded.

"..."

They waited. Italy bounced his leg, counted how many blades of grass there were, held his breath to see how long he can hold it, and stood still by the beige, plastic wall. It was calm, a suspicious calm as some bicycles rang through with honks and childish screams of joy. A bee buzzed by his ear and he jerked away harshly, almost sending America and him down to the ground. The bee kept buzzing its lovely tune, a lone flower by the trash can waiting, withering away under the shade alone.

The blinds then screeched as they harshly scraped against the window. Oh, so she had been listening! The blinds, they were not graceful as they scratched the plastic window.

Italy saw the white blades move up, and America dive to push him on the ground. Italy blinked as he was cradled in America's chest still. His amber eyes took in the blue clear skies and refused the urge to rip the clouds with his hands. Italy could feel America not breath and he, in turn, did not breath. Italy never realized how sturdy America's chest was or exactly how much bigger he was. Because as the alert, darting eyes of Elliot scanned the small passageway of swaying grass, the sound of annoying lawn mowers in the back, Italy realized that he was incredibly lonely.

He missed being hugged. The act of being surrounded by arms as an involuntary act. Because despite how uncomfortable Germany was, he always blushed that weird blush of his and hugged Italy when he was feeling particularly down. Italy lowered his chin and fought off a longing sigh, the arms around him confining and constricting.

Italy wiggled and Elliot backed away from the window suspicious. She looked again and brought the blinds down deciding she was just paranoid.

America let go and took a giant gulp of air. As he took in his precious oxygen, Italy wobbled upright and dusted off his pants. America jumped upright, grinning a million dollar smile, and Italy wondered if this is what they meant as a Hollywood smile.

"Man, good thing that window was high enough from the ground to not see us from down below!" America whispered (but not really).

Italy laughed softly, nervously and still struck with fraying nerves, and America kept grinning. America walked away brusquely from the window and back to the main road. "It was classic, Italy. Almost too easy," America said as he swung his arms.

"How did you know? I would've never known!"

America chuckled liking the chance to gloat. "I just did. I dunno, I just had the feeling. And I was right! She was hiding something. Something major."

"I wonder what it is," Italy said already racking his brain for possibilities. There were simply too many.

"We're gonna find out soon."

"Why's that?"

"Because we're going back in there. But Elliot won't be there, of course. She will be gone tomorrow, by four in the morning. She will be gone almost all day, a particularly long flight tomorrow. It will be the perfect time to scoop."

The plan was wonderful, really, but wasn't that illegal? And so Italy asked.

"Normally, but I mean, the fate of a country is at stake here! It's not just Germany, Italy. It's the German people. _Millions._ If they don't have Ludwig, humans get...restless to say the least."

It was odd how America, a spoiled little baby compared to Italy in riches and experience, knew more of this matter than he. Germany...if Germany was gone, what was left of its people? A new personification? Anarchy? Italy didn't want another Ludwig. His heart can't handle another blonde, it simply has no more room.

"Oh. You have weird priorities."

"Naw," America began, "If you want to get all legal and technical, what I'm doing is not illegal. I'm with the F.B.I., and I have the authority to record or note anything suspicious in the case of a trial as evidence. It's all just data, I haven't accused her of anything."

"..."

"..."

"Hey, are we going to try and get that picture?" Italy asked after a while of hearing their footsteps hit the gravel. Crunch, crunch, crunch it went.

America scratched his head. "I mean. I don't see a reason too. Do you want to? It would be really easy too. We would just have to ask Prussia where that family is in Germany, ask the mom if she's still alive, but I think she still is, and get it back from her."

Italy wanted to say yes! Yes, of course! It was meant for him, his eyes only. He wanted to tear the doors down and demand how something so precious could have fallen to the hands of such a family. Why Germany tried to burn it and why he had to deliver the words he could not say out loud in a message through a photograph of black and whites. Italy realized that America never asked the date in which the picture had been taken...

America still awaited Italy's answer. "No, it's okay," Italy said.

America didn't look too convinced.

Italy smiled. "It's fine. Really! I have plenty of pictures of Germany!"

Crunch, crunch, crunch the sound of the gravel went. To that beat, America believed Italy. America smiled and looked ahead. "Alright. If you say so."

And so the two walked away from the quaint little house with quaint little flowers.

...

"Lovino Vargas speaking, who the fuck is this."

"Romano, where is Northern Italy?"

Romano groaned. This asshole again.

"I don't know Mr. Amato, probably out inhaling pasta and avoiding your sorry ass."

"Haha, very funny. I would kill you if you weren't immortal," Mr. Amato bit out gruffly.

Romano smiled. "Glad the feeling is mutual, but you're mortal so."

"Is that a threat?" Mr. Amato hissed violently.

"Take it as you will," Romano answered back cooly.

"Look, I don't have time for your sass. Just tell me where your brother is."

"Whatever you need to say to my brother, just say to me," Romano snapped.

"I need to discuss this with the portion that actually matters."

 _Oh_ , how Romano bristled. He gritted his teeth and it took all his willpower to not start screaming into the phone.

"What. The fuck. Do you need?" Romano growled.

"I need to talk to Italy — Northern Italy. I know you know where he is," Mr. Amato bit back just as coldly.

"Well guess what short dick, I'm also Italy so start fucking talking."

Mr. Amato flared. "This is only a message to Italy, got that? Tell him this and tell him to immediately call me back."

Romano rolled his eyes. "Whatever. This better be fucking important. And make it snappy, I have things to do."

"Right. You know of the crises with Germany, yes?" Amato spoke to Romano as if he were handicapped.

"Yes. I was there at the last meeting."

"Good. Then you should know Germany's government right now is crazy. In fact, the president has —"

"Hold on, hold on. Crazy as in we're about to take over the world again or crazy as in there was no potatoes?"

"Which one do you think? The government itself is fine, it's the members. They're getting stressed —"

"They're always stressed."

"Yes, well, extra stressed. Stop interrupting," Mr. Amato snapped.

"Fine. Continue then, _Mr. Amato."_

Mr. Amato ignored the obvious jab. "You know what happens to stressed officials —"

"Whores," Romano answered. He snickered as his boss heaved on the other end.

"NO! LISTEN. Kohl has contacted me with propositions of a new personification," he barked out, patience run dry.

Romano stopped laughing and gripped the phone in shock. He didn't speak for a couple seconds before he found his voice again. "What in the actual fuck?"

Mr. Amato grunted, not pleased either. "If you listened for once, you would know!' Amato said roughly, "But yes, the Chancellor has contacted me in regards to maybe finding a new personification."

"Are you fucking retarded?! That's not how we work!" Romano shouted, not in fear for Germany, but instead for Feliciano. Feliciano...never Feliciano...

"Tell me," Amato began lowly, "What is it that makes a personification a personification?"

"A national identity," Romano responded back.

"Does it matter the size?"

Romano thought back to the little kid in the meeting room always claiming he's a country. Sealand was it? A fort, right?

"No..."

"Exactly. Take some land, get a stupid sap to be President of his whatever, let that idiot get some followers, enough to birth whatever the hell you are, and replace Germany with that new person in government."

Romano clutched onto the phone cord in anger. To talk about a nation like that, with such ignorance and disrespect left Romano boiling with rage. Who were they to play God? Who were they, mere stupid, pathetic little humans who know _nothing, to_ play puppet master?

"That is the most fucking stupidest piece of shit I have ever heard. And I've heard a lot. But this. This is just fucking brilliant. Amazing!" Romano seethed.

"I didn't ask for your opinion, did I?" Mr. Amato paused, "I suppose it's natural. To be jealous. You never were the liked one, always outshined by Northern Italy. No trade, no good art, no good music, no good anything."

"You are dealing with things that are beyond you fuck face, I wouldn't go there," Romano said with a shadow crossing over his face.

"It doesn't matter anyhow. You see, I quite like this plan."

"You're actually going through with it?!"

"Yes, I am. A new Germany. No past omens to weigh it down, no guilt or better yet," Amato made a pleased sound, "feelings. Gay feelings."

"You're just angry because your wife fakes an orgasm and fucks the tennis coach. My brother is a fag, get the fuck over it," Romano hissed viciously.

Mr. Amato spluttered. Romano continued. "You can't just do that, brainwash some run-of-the-mill country. It has feelings, identity, it can't be Germany because it _isn't!_ It will be Potatoland or whatever the fuck a kraut names it."

"An identity within the larger country. Take Seborga. It is at a fundamental level Italy. It has no distinction of its own. You don't hear anyone claiming to be Seborgan because there is no such thing. To be Seborgan is to be Italian, " Mr. Amato rebuttaled.

"No. This is not how — you can't just," Romano exhaled angrily, "this is not how any of this works. Germany is Germany because he has the official title. He has you fuck faces in suits and his shit people, but even with that, he has more than whatever satan country you want to pop out. There is a reason there is only one of us running the country —"

"Yet, you're here."

"Mr. Amato. Have you ever been tortured?" Romano began darkly, "How about devoured by some crows in broad daylight. Hanged, burned? Rats aren't so bad once you get to know them. Tar and feathering was always my favorite. How about living for literally millenniums? Oh, that's right. You haven't because YOU'RE NOT A FUCKING COUNTRY SO SHUT THE FUCK UP."

"You're a useless one," Mr. Amato responded back unfazed.

Romano had to curl his toes to prevent himself from throwing his phone at the wall. "Mr. Amato. I will explain this to you slowly because you seem to be gaining chromosomes. _You. Can't. Make. Another. Germany._ Not now. Not ever. So just fucking don't!"

He could practically feel Mr. Amato smiling with the reassurance of something Romano does not know.

"Why won't you agree, Romano? You hate Germany, wouldn't this be perfect?"

Romano bit his cheek in irritation. Really, how much of an asshole did people make him out to be? He didn't want Germany to die.

"Then again, you are just the same as your useless brother. If not even more useless. It's clear what the decision will be," Mr. Amato said finally out of patience. Romano slammed his fist on the wall.

"You listen here you fucking piece of shitty lard, I am not going through with this plan. Feliciano sure as hell won't go fucking through with this and if somehow, through some cocksucking, this plan becomes a reality, it will be the worst mistake of your life. Do not go through with this."

"And why's that?" Mr. Amato tested.

"Because Feliciano will be livid. Just try it. _I dare you."_

 _..._

"This is ridiculous," Austria groaned.

Hungary tapped the black, fluffy microphones in nonchalance. "Italy and Germany's entire future is on the line here. Their love, their passion, gone!"

"Of course you would only care about their love life," Austria grumbled. He felt a light fist on his right shoulder.

"Oh come on, you know I kid," Hungary smiled, "for the most part."

Austria backed away and continued to sit in his chair as he watched Hungary fiddle with her microphones and sound audio.

"Is all this necessary? You are just visiting Prussia."

Hungary looked at him dead in the eye. "Exactly."

Austria rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever you are plotting, I want no part in it."

"But you have to come," Hungary whined as she flipped out her pocket knife, with bloodstains Austria noted. "I have an important part for you. No one else can do this job."

She spoke with seriousness so Austria was forced to comply, at least listen to what she says.

"And that is?" he asked.

She smiled and explained. "You are going to knock on Prussia's doorbell, he will open the door and see you. It's a shot in the dark here, but I'm pretty sure he will start teasing you or something," she stopped when she noticed Austria's frown. "Don't look that way, it gets better, okay? You banter a bit, not too much! Not enough to get you kicked out, but enough where he invites you in on relatively good terms and you can plant these."

Hungary held in her palm small, cylindrical mics. Austria stared unamused.

"Why do we need to wire Prussia's house? This is ridiculous. It will get us nowhere!"

"Why's that?"

"Because Prussia is a man of action Hungary, not a man of word. You'll be getting static if you plant those in his house."

Hungary lowered her head and cast her eyes down. "Yeah, you're probably right. It is kinda dumb..."

Austria got up from his seat, gracefully of course, and gently picked the microphone chips out of Hungary's hands. "What is this about?"

She sighed. "I'm really worried about him, Austria."

"Who?"

Hungary spun her head, a blob of brown curls following behind her. "Both! Both Germany and Prussia. You know what I heard? Prussia is actually serious at meetings, he hasn't played a prank or blown something up!"

"It's not that hard to believe that he's serious, right?" Austria asked.

Hungary shook her head. "No, it's not, but still! But still...I worry about him. Germany is everything to him."

Austria sighed again and placed the microphone chips on some nearby table. He walked towards the entrance of his house, Hungary trailing along behind him confused, and put on his coat.

"Where are you going?" She asked, watching him slide into a coat sleeve.

"Where are we going."

Hungary looked at Austria in deeper confusion. Her eyes widened before she twirled, her dress fluttering around her as her face broke into a grin. "What are we waiting for, then!"

...

"You drive like such a girl, I swear Austria. And you got us lost!" Hungary ranted as she closed Austria's car shut. Austria flushed angrily. "Well excuse me for driving like a normal person! And we were not lost, the signs were just repeated."

"This is why I should have driven, Prussia might not even be here anymore," Hungary grumbled as she walked up the paved pathway. She stopped to admire the rolling green and faintly wondered why the dogs weren't barking already.

"It's seven, I believe even a brute like him comes home at a normal hour," Austria said stopping by Hungary's right. He peered at the direction she was gazing at and saw nothing but grass sway.

"Austria, I wish I were better at poetry so I could tell you what I'm seeing right now," Hungary said out loud to the silence, the question unasked answered.

Austria sent her a strange look. Hungary shook her head. "Never mind, let's just go see if he's home."

"Do you even have a plan?" Austria asked as he climbed up a step alongside the brown-haired nation.

"Should I?"

Austria facepalmed. "Oh, this should be lovely."

"Trust me, this will go fine!"

Austria looked unimpressed.

"Don't give me that look, see! I already hear footsteps," Hungary said cheerily. Her hands crossed over her apron.

"Already hear footsteps," Austria muttered. He snapped his eyes open. "Already hearing footsteps!"

"Yes. Play nice," Hungary said looking directly at the anticipated door to open.

And open it did with three over-excited dogs held tight on a black leash, the pale hand firmly grasping the leash.

There Prussia stood with Blackie, Aster, and Berlitz. The dogs wagged their tails in delight, and Prussia sighed.

"Hungary," Prussia acknowledged, "Pansy," to Austria.

Hungary took in his appearance and felt a string of melancholy play within her. He wasn't even out of his dress shirt (cleanly pressed, Hungary noticed) or Oxfords. His belt was still very much intact and buckled, the silk slacks fitting nicely, but no doubt uncomfortably, on his long legs. Hungary resisted the urge to tighten his crooked, black tie and scold him.

But, Hungary realized, there was nothing to scold him for.

One of the dogs started becoming restless, and Prussia told him to stop. Prussia scratched his head, neither Austria or Hungary having explained themselves.

"Can't we do this tomorrow? Haven't you said enough?" Prussia said gruffly.

Austria and Hungary's eyes met before she focused back to Prussia. "Do what?" Hungary asked.

"You know what, that _little fuck's_ plan! That —"

Aster started sniffing Austria's leg and Austria visibly cringed. He tried making it go away, nudging it away with the bent of his knee, but the dog was hundreds of years old—it didn't particularly care that Austria's bony knee was in its face. It started circling around him, panting and looking up at Austria with hopeful, dark charcoals for a chance to play. It was horrifying.

And Prussia was too busy heaving and getting red in the face to do anything about it.

Hungary looked at Austria and shooed the dog away, stopping Prussia. _"Braver hund,"_ he cooed.

"We really don't know what you're talking about," Hungary began.

Prussia glared, his disheveled look making him seem more intimidating. "Oh, you know. Your Prime Minister was there, loud and clear, agreeing. Nodding his damn head at every word West's boss said like a tool."

"Hey, watch it," Hungary warned, "I honestly don't know what your deal is, but I have no part in whatever you're raging about."

Hungary and Prussia glared at each other, neither one relenting to back away. Lies could not be detected through the eyes, but it was a nice thought as they both tried to induce the truth.

"What do you guys want?" Prussia asked Hungary trying to be civil.

"We wanted to see if you were okay, but obviously you think I did some kind of felony," Hungary said accusingly.

Prussia gritted his teeth, and Hungary wondered what landmine she stepped on this time. This time, it seemed, the bomb is willing to explode much faster and quicker.

"Really now? You care so much, you have the audacity to come here and lie to me like this? This is _rich._ "

Hungary looked genuinely affronted. "How am I lying? I haven't lied to you — what are you even talking about?"

"Cut the bullshit already. You're no damn victim. Don't fuck with me," Prussia growled dangerously.

"Then tell me. Tell me what I'm doing so wrong oh great _Prussia."_

Prussia clenched his fist. Prussia shifted his gaze to Austria and was surprised to find him sitting on the ground petting the bored dogs. They were lying on the ground relaxed and waiting with their tongues sticking out with eyes that took in every movement. Austria stroked Aster's thick mane of golden hair, the hair reaching out beyond his scissors fingers, in tranquility. He noticed a lull in the conversation and looked up. He arched his brow, acting superior despite being literally looked down on, and pursed his lips. "Are you done releasing sexual tension now?"

The reaction was immediate, both Hungary and Prussia sputtering. Austria kept petting the dog liking how blonde the fur is. Yes, he decided. Blonde is a nice color for a dog.

"We do not have sexual tension!" Hungary shrieked.

"Not awesome. I would rather fuck a dead fish. It would feel and smell the same."

 _"Excuse me?"_ Hungary hissed, her hair no longer the soft, curly brown that Austria loved. Instead, it was beginning to defy gravity.

Prussia looked over Hungary's fuming figure and grinned. "I stand corrected, a solid twenty by —"

"Shut up!" Hungary whacked Prussia hard on the head with her frying pan. Prussia hissed. "God damn it woman, what is that thing made out of?"

She raised it again. "Want to find out?" She threatened.

Austria coughed. They both looked at him.

"Hungary, what are we here for again?" he reminded calmly. Hungary lowered her frying pan unwillingly and glanced at Prussia. He was nursing the sore spot so she put it away, instead opting to take her hand out to help Austria get up. He took it gratefully and stood back up.

Hungary patted down her dress acting as if she had not possibly given Prussia brain damage. "We are not trying to pull your leg here. We really did come here to see how you were holding up. But if you don't want us here, then I can understand."

Prussia didn't say anything for a moment.

"You really don't know? Austria?"

Austria pushed his glasses up. "No. I do not know nor does Hungary."

Prussia nodded and commanded the dogs to get up in his rough tongue. They got up and walked dutifully back to him. Prussia exited the house and locked the door behind him, causing Hungary and Austria to move out of the way.

"It was just a stupid tax, don't worry about it," Prussia said.

Hungary furrowed her brows. "Why would my boss need to talk to you if it was about a tax? That's usually left to me...and it sounded like more than just a stupid tax."

Prussia waved his hand. "Because I'm awesome. Do you need any other explanation? Besides, it's ridiculously high and stupid, your boss thinking it was 'revolutionary' or something like that, but it's more crippling than anything else."

"You sound much calmer now," Hungary noted.

"It won't happen. I won't let it happen."

Hungary didn't believe it. Austria didn't believe it.

"You were about to murder me a second ago, now you're just going for a stroll with your dogs? No, there's something else."

Prussia shrugged. "Believe it if you want. It's the truth."

"The unawesome truth," Hungary tested.

"Awesome truth," Prussia shook his head, "Really, stop your bitching. I just snapped, I had been talking to Romano before walking out the door."

Hungary immediately brightened. "Oh, how is he?"

Prussia groaned. "Still the same as always. I could barely have a sentence in without him cursing me out."

Berlitz whined. Prussia yanked on the leashes and lazily saluted to them. "See ya."

Hungary and Austria watched as Prussia walked down the road with the three dogs in calmness, the dogs trotting happily with an owner of pensive eyes. It felt wrong. To see Prussia so responsible, the silhouette down the mountain morphing into one of more rigidness and broadness—a smaller body skipping by the left. But as Prussia led those dogs to a path Hungary and Austria did not know of, Austria wondered just how cold those leashes felt.

"Do you think he's really fine?"

For the house was empty by the time Prussia came back, the sun still in the sky, just as the figures of the driveway had faded away.

"No. No, but I'm surprised he's lasted this long."

Prussia told himself he wouldn't cry — awesome people don't cry, they don't get teary because of bad company. He felt Blackie lick his cheek, not unaccustomed to sweet salt, and Prussia buried his head into the dog's soft neck, breathing in to stop himself from choking. The sun set and Germany's nagging of Prussia to get curtains echoed through his mind in the silent house. The dog whined sadly and pawed at him desperately, not understanding why his master was sobbing and calling out _mein kleiner bruder, mein kleiner bruder_ over and over and over again.

...

"Oh man, he's lighter than I thought. Where does all that pasta even go?" America asked as he placed the happily snoring Italy on the hotel bed.

Italy had collapsed right after eating at Waffle House, and America could not figure out why for the life of him. Did Italy always just randomly sleep during the day? America could suddenly feel for Germany, having to carry a sleeping nation all the time must have been tiring. Mentally and physically, America thought.

And that thought made him sigh as he walked to the kitchen. He made himself some coffee and the blaring number of _5:15_ did not escape him as pushed the start button on the black, coffee machine. The machine was humming a silent tune, and America drummed his fingers on the counter. What to do with such information.

He already made it clear that he was going to go snoop for some more info tomorrow morning, but what exactly of Europe. He wondered what's been going on with them. Hopefully, no war has started. He was still keeping a close eye on Russia despite being "victorious". It's only been a year since Russia's "family" walked away from him, and three since the Berlin Wall was destroyed. And then America paused in drumming.

Three years since the Berlin Wall fell. How odd it was for Germany to walk out of all times. East Germany was nowhere near okay financially or morally — the communistic rule being more devastating than anyone would have been proud of. West Germany, Ludwig, had been doing great with his Democratic, (America grinned, his way of life always seemed to do the best!) system, and Prussia not so much.

No one blamed Prussia (not so much after the sixties at least, the wound open for understanding) but Ludwig's economy sure didn't like it.

And this only gave America more reason to growl at Russia's name. Sure, he had been bitter about the war like the rest, but he eventually did help Germany and see past his faults. Russia, on the other hand, seemed to squeeze any form of life or progress. Just as cold and sharp as his tundras, nothing much ever changes, the brutal way of thinking never leaving Russia's demented head.

And just as the water was boiled, ready to be diluted with the coffee mix, America gained a crushing fist in his stomach—squeezing and unrelenting.

Because just what if Russia took Germany?

Now, as America took the pot of water and poured it into a glass, he decided that the theory was just the jaundice in him talking. It was natural, he thought, to be bitter and wary. Russia was an easy scapegoat, but the idea would not fleet his head despite being rational with himself. It just struck him—why hadn't he thought of it before?

Russia was untrustworthy, spoke with a tongue divided, and generally one that should not be messed with unless necessary. A great ally to the crazies of the world, and an enemy to the rest.

America stopped swirling and looked at the counter. Granite, shiny and new.

Germany would never just go with Russia willingly. It would have blown up, been all over Europe. So maybe, a personal abduction? A personal murmur between the two?

America suddenly thinks back to that one meeting back in '77. Prussia was still behind the wall, and Russia was as strong as ever with his little Soviet Union with China. America had wanted to wear plaid bell-bottom pants to the meeting so badly, but President Ford had stopped him. Looking back, he was glad that he didn't wear the tan blazer either.

Ah, the good old days where _Hotel California and Stayin' Alive_ were the only things that played on the radios...

 _"Russia? What do you think you're doing?" Germany had asked walking quickly towards the shaking and quivering Italian. Italy was looking up petrified to Germany's form, the gloved hand on his shoulder clutching tightly._

 _"GERMANY! HELP!" Italy wailed._

 _"Just asking comrade Italy if he wants to become part of mother Russia. He said no," Russia had said sadly._

 _Germany sighed. "Let go of Italy, Russia."_

 _"No."_

 _Germany looked sharply to Russia. "Russia, let go."_

 _Russia patted Italy's head. Italy shook even more and cried harder. "But why? I will treat him nice. He just has to join me! I will get him out of your hair."_

 _"You know Italy is a democracy, Russia. He won't join you."_

 _"Won't or can't?" Russia asked tilting his head. Russia looked at Germany long and hard._

 _"I do not understand you," Russia began confused. "Why do you protect such a useless nation? After all the pain and suffering he's caused you? I would treat him nice. I could give him the punishment he deserves...he would be happy. Really happy!"_

 _"You are not taking Italy," Germany had growled removing Russia's clutch on Italy's shoulder. He moved him closer to his side. "He is not becoming a part of your cheap, dollhouse family."_

 _Russia glared at Germany. "Fine. I hope your cold bath has enough salt in it, Germany." Germany had inhaled sharply and seemed as though he had been shot._

 _Italy looked up to Germany. "Thank you, Germany! Thank you! I knew you would save me! I knew you wouldn't let me be taken over by Russia!" Itlay hugged Germany tightly._

 _Germany peeled off Italy's flimsy arms quickly and roughly. He peered down to Italy with cold, apathetic eyes. He then walked away without saying any further words. Italy then went running after Germany. "Wait! Wait! Ahh, Germany!"_

 _Belarus appeared beside Russia, her heels making soft clicks as she stood shorter beside her brother. "That was mean of you, Brother," she said bored._

 _"How so?" Russia asked interestedly._

 _"Because you know that if Germany had to choose between death or handing Italy over to you, he would be conflicted. Both seem valid to him."_

America reflected at the little scene and wondered what Belarus's bland tone had meant. Just why didn't things add up...!

But maybe he is getting this all wrong. Maybe, maybe it was Germany who went out and attacked Russia.

Yes, America could see it now. Prussia returns, in horrible condition obviously, and Germany feels outraged. Italy doesn't like him the way he likes Italy, East Germany is soul crushing, and Prussia is physically hurt. Russia is vulnerable, emotionally weak from his shattered glass painted family, and Germany decides that right now would be the perfect time to attack.

America sipped his coffee and sat down on the couch absentmindedly.

No one would suspect Germany, America continued to theorize. Germany, the one who was so busy planning the World Summit and genuinely trying to move on from his past, would never go out and start another war. It would be ludicrous of him too. Germany wasn't financially stable enough, or high in moral enough—it would break his word. He signed the papers, America thought to himself, he witnessed how ostracized a nation could truly be despite having the agreement on ink.

Germany would know better.

America turned his head towards the room Italy was resting in.

Love, America thought, could make a man do crazy things — the good and the bad. Crazy things for a feeling that might never be truly returned.

(And maybe, that's the sanest thing Ludwig has.)

...

"I'm coming in."

The door to Russia's bedroom opened. The room was dark. Bottles of empty vodka littered underneath the table. Russia was superstitious about things like that, something about the bottles on top of a table being bad luck.

Russia groaned not wanting to get out of the bed. Sock covered feet floated across the floor to Russia's bedside. "Come on, it's time to go," the voice whispered softly. The figure brushed Russia's platinum colored fringe lightly and looked at the sleeping face in fondness. The figure shook Russia gently. "Go away," Russia mumbled groggily.

The figure laughed. It then ripped the blankets off completely in one swift move and starting nudging Russia with its foot, the body moving back in forth in annoyance. "Go away," Russia said desperately wanting to back to sleep.

Canada smiled and stopped nudging Russia with his foot. He leaned down and hit his forehead against Russia's. Russia fluttered his eyes opened and saw Canada's amethyst ones come into focus quickly. Canada loved seeing Russia's eyes, they were much darker than his own despite what anyone said. Canada grinned and backed away before Russia could try to steal a kiss. Russia whined.

"We'll be late, eh? Come on, come on," Canada urged. Russia muttered profanities under his breath and got up from the barren bed. "Do you we have to go today? I wanted to go to the sauna today..."

Canada sighed exasperatedly. "Yes, we have to go right now. Hungary wanted to talk to us today. We've already postponed this too many times."

"Only twice. That girl was being annoying," Russia defended as he put on his scarf. "Why does she want to talk to us now?"

Canada paused. "I don't know. It's about pressing matters, apparently." Russia walked over to the closet and put on a warm gray sweater. "It's probably about Germany then."

Canada nodded. "Probably. You wouldn't know anything about him, right?" Russia smiled and did not answer. He shimmied into his coat and disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth. "Russia, you didn't answer the question," Canada said walking after Russia into the bathroom. Russia looked back at Canada through the reflection and shrugged. He kept brushing. Canada looked uneasy. "Russia..."

Russia spat out the toothpaste and gurgled the water as if it were vodka and spit it out just as violently. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tilted his head back. "Germany is in a safe place. Matvey made sure of it."

Canada flushed. "D-Don't say that! You're making it sound like I'm the one who made him—"

Russia kissed Canada to make him shut up and smiled when they broke apart. "Matvey shut up now, da?" Canada looked away. "Hoser."

Russia laughed and exited the bedroom to go put on his boots by the main entryway. Canada did not follow immediately, his eyes melancholy and distant. "Germany, wherever you are, I wish you hadn't taken my words to heart..."

...

 **Scheiße —** _ **Shit in German.**_

 **Braver Hund —** _ **Good dog in German.**_

 **Mein Kleiner Bruder —** _ **My Little Brother in German**_ **.**

 **Bottles On Floor —** _ **People in Russia believe that if you leave empty bottles on top of the table it will bring bad luck. Russians have some pretty interesting superstitions.**_

 **Girl Hungary —** _ **Every female is referred to as girl in Russia. Even grandmas.**_

...

 **So not a fan of long, italicized flashbacks so I tried to keep it as short and sweet as possible. Am I the only one? I just see the long italicized pieces of text and think: SKIP. Idk, something about it annoys me. I can't be the only one.**

 **Good old bad guy Russia trope, I know, I know. But since this is America's point of view after a year of the USSR diaspora I felt like this was reasonable enough. I don't think America and Russia are still totally okay to this day now that I think about it.**

 **Also. RusCan. Because there isn't enough of it. It holds a purpose too, though.**

 **Thanks for reading and taking the time to get this far! Until the next one, my dudes.**


	9. Gentle Rains Will Come

Chapter Nine — Gentle Rains Will Come For Those Who Wait

...

"You look stressed."

"Tell me something I don't know, frog."

France chuckled at England's come back. The two of them were accompanying their bosses for some rather urgent meeting regarding Germany's staggering economy. A phenomenon was occurring in Germany that no mathematician or economist could explain. The numbers were dropping by the second, and it was making the rest of the E.U. uneasy. The people...they were becoming nervous.

"I could always make you less stressed," France purred.

"Fuck off," England snapped back with no real bite. France leaned back in his chair, tired of seeing the same dull, office lights above him.

"You don't think Germany is mad at me, right?" France asked still looking up at the ceiling. The lights droned on, their buzzing not enough to block out England's cup from hitting the plastic table.

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

France rolled his head to the side. "Oh I don't know, I just murdered his brother is all."

England shook his head. "It wasn't just you, it was all of the Allies. Prussia's not mad at you, so you shouldn't be mad at yourself. Grief makes you look uglier than normal."

France chuckled. "But has he forgiven me? I'm not so sure."

England looked uncomfortable. France wasn't drunk or in a relationship at the moment, so it was odd for England to see France so sentimental over something with no alcohol in his blood.

"I'm sure...he's over that now," England responded back waiting for his boss to come out already. The air was too casual. Too personal.

"I hope so. I hope so. Germany can be so sensitive," France said with a melancholic look in his eyes.

"Yes, well. A young one he is."

"You don't have to be young to be sentimental," France said, levying his head from the hardback chair rest.

England rolled his eyes disgusted. "Can your mind not be in the gutter for one bleeding moment?"

"But Germany needs to feel _l'amore_ ," France said enjoying how disgruntled England was becoming.

"Whatever. As long as you don't fuck up anything, Prussia should stay clear of you," England said taking a sip of his tea.

France raised a brow. "What a dirty mouth you have. I see America has been rubbing off on you in more than one way."

England blushed and almost choked on his tea. "Bugger off!" Despite how much he tried to stay angry at France, the blasted warmth in his cheeks would not leave.

"Ah, but I wish I could. Germany is a taken man. Italy of all people! I should have known," France said shaking his head regretfully.

"It wasn't all that hard to tell."

"Yes, but this is Germany we are talking about. He blushes at about anything," France said with mirth.

"You have a point," England agreed. They didn't say anything for a while. England was about to shut his eyes when France's voice brought him back.

"They say there's going to be another war."

This brought England's eyes to snap open. "What? That is bloody mad! Who is saying this?"

"The media back at my place. My people...they are divided. The younger generation wants to help—they are the ones demanding and criticizing the government about help and change, while the older generation still holds hatred amongst the Germans and don't want to get involved. My people do not deal with poverty well. You know what happens when something is unjust..."

England never did understand as to why France had 1789 tattooed on himself.

England breathed out a sigh of relief. "Don't say such stupid things like that France," England spat. "You made it sound as if alliances were being formed. It's just another one of your strikes, nothing to be concerned with."

France grimaced. "I wouldn't count on that. It's spreading like wildfire—this movement. It could affect the E.U. if strong enough and," France chuckled, "some are even saying God has abandoned the state of Germany."

England furrowed his brows. "God? What a ridiculous thing to say, we are not gods. As for this civil movement," England glared furiously, "keep it in your country France. We do not need another crisis in our hands."

France glared back just as fiercely. "Oh, so now this is my fault?"

"When you are calling for war, yes. Yes, it is your fault," England hissed. "Keep your revolts and movements within your own borders. Europe does not need more confusion than it does right now."

"It's already spreading — do you not pay attention to the news? Or are you too busy being bent over by your American fling?" France spat back.

England growled and clenched his fist. "Do not speak of things you have no part in France. If anything, I would say you are feeling quite incompetent aren't you? We don't have time for your ambivalence of guilt."

France seemed puzzled. "What are you talking about England?"

"You murdered Germany once, I would not be surprised if you did it another time."

France gasped. He gaped and stared at the glaring Englishman in pure offense. He would never —!

"Do not say you would never do that — we both bloody well know you are petty enough to stoop down to such levels. You admitted it yourself, you murdered Prussia. Took away his reason to live, ripped apart millions of families — you were there personally to see Germany cry by the wall that day in fifty-five and didn't do anything but smirk."

"Do not preach to me about brutality and savagery, oh Great British Empire," France mocked with clenched teeth.

"But you are not denying my claims because they are true," England replied cooly.

France looked down. He didn't say anything, the humming suddenly a tad comforting.

"I see. Remember where you stand France. Europe is no longer a continent of one divided by many, it is many divided by one." England did not excuse himself as he stood up from his chair. He grabbed his papers and briefcase, and walked towards the door, closing the heavy door with a loud click.

France ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment, his head pounding from the cries of anguish and unrest.

Because despite how much France would like to deny England's words, England always had the mouth of snake — poisonous and cold. It was already spreading in his veins, he thinks, the worry he feels right now.

The truth. It was a hard poison to remove.

...

"America! America! She has pasta!" Italy gushed as he invaded Eliot's cabinets. There were of course potatoes and other German reminisces, but she had pasta! (They seemed to be imported from Italy and that made Italy glow with pride.)

America wasn't paying much attention to Italy's rambling. "Ya huh, cool dude. Real coolio."

"What is this! Ragú? What is this?!" Italy shrieked in outrage. "Traditional? There is nothing traditional about this piece of garbage," Italy continued to rant to the half empty bottle of pasta sauce.

America sighed. "I know, I know, my pasta sauce is nothing compared to the godly tomatoes and garlic from your place — I've been chewed out on it from Romano about it enough times, so can we please focus?"

Italy seemed conflicted. He couldn't let such an abomination continue to exist. "But, but, but, but, but —"

"Cheek. Come on Italy, you're supposed to be helping, dude!" America said shutting a cabinet full of sticky notes. None of them helpful.

"Okay," Italy said sadly, shuffling his feet to help. He moved some stuff around, but no put real effort. Italy moved through the living room and checked every cabinet he could in the small room as America searched like a hawk in the dining room and kitchen (that were connected).

"Find anything?" America asked loudly as if they weren't only just one room away.

"No," Italy responded back already bored.

"I'm searchin' her room, wish me luck," America said as he rushed into her room. Italy smiled and floated behind America. "I want to search too."

Italy was behind America as he opened up a drawer. They held their breath and.

It was a bra drawer. How lovely.

America blinked and closed it. "Kinky," America said as he opened up another. Italy nodded, appreciating her choice of black lace. Quite classy, if he did say so himself.

"The underwear drawer. You don't think she has stuff hidden underneath?" America asked as if he was asking Italy to dare to search in the girl's drawer.

"I don't know. Why don't you check?" Italy said back with the same twinkle in his eye.

There was nothing interesting sadly. There were no toys, magazines, dollar bills, or anything remotely suspicious.

"There's always this drawer, Italy," America said cheerfully as he yanked the poor wooden drawer out. The vanity shook and the metal railings were close to snapping from their own weight and force from America.

Italy peered on and saw. Paychecks? America ruffled through the banking booklets with disinterest, the duckie designs on the checks making him smile before moving onto another blank strip of paper. Italy stood by the side confused as America discarded such good evidence—right? It had money symbols, that must mean something.

America was digging at the bottom and still found nothing. He threw a dime behind him and huffed as he slammed the drawer behind him. All the contents were behind him sprawled on the bed.

"This drawer has to have something. She has to have some mode of sending that money," America said determinedly.

Oh, surprise, surprise. Medical bills? America picked one up in interest. Massachusetts. How interesting. What could she want in Massachusetts? Especially a person not in critical condition?

Italy looked down at the same envelope America was looking at his eyes widened. "This is the person she was talking about yesterday, right? This is the one she was sending money, right?" America nodded at Italy's words and removed the contents of the envelope with his gloved hands carefully.

"We're going to find out."

RE-ADMISSION OF PAMELA VOGEL —

"Dude, dude, dude, how great is this! We just found the person she was so scared talking about! She said, Pamela, yesterday—this has to be the same person," America said giddily, reading more medical bills. They weren't high amounts of payments, but they were consistent. There were no signs of cancer or chronic sickness, either. It was just as if this woman lived at the hospital.

"This is great, America. Does that mean we're going to go see her now?" Italy asked eager to go.

America thought about it. They could wait for Elliot to come back and make her explain the situation or they could go directly to Pamela and make her talk. Although seeing how this woman was in the hospital, under the psychiatric care, he didn't know just how reliable (or ethical) that would be.

If he waited for Elliot to come back, though, she might call the hospital and alert it to not let him in. He could bully his way into the hospital of course, but that would leave him feeling horrible. He already witnessed how emotional this woman was. No, no. Waiting is a bad choice as well.

So, going directly?

Yes, that sounds like the best option. His crew can handle the legality issues and arrest Elliot or whatever, he needed to get some answers. She already knows the government is after her, America reasoned, might as well go to not make her stress even more. So, America nodded.

"We're going to go see her," America said after a short period of silence. Italy smiled brilliantly. "But, we aren't going right now," America continued. America can see the question marks around Italy.

"When I was down at the station, the crew told me to not forget about Europe. I told him, duh, how can you forget about Europe, right? It's like a soap opera every second, some kind of drama always happening. And that was what they warned me about. If I'm not careful...things might blow up over there," America said not liking the happiness fading away from Italy.

"So, Europe is in a bad place right now?"

"Yeah, my dude. We gotta be real careful about what we say, especially at a time like this."

Italy nodded vigorously. "Right-o. Got it, America."

America smiled warmly at Italy. Italy, he had to admit, was a really cute nation.

"Right! Off to Europe, we go!"

"Yay!" Italy said as he trailed after America. "Where are we going?" Italy asked.

America froze mid-step, smile still on his face, and turned gray. "I...I don't know. Oh shit, where should we go?" Italy looked just as clueless when America turned to him for some help.

"Maybe...Germany's place? Try to find this Cornelia —"

America snapped his fingers not listening to Italy. "I know! We should go to Iggy's place. He's good at stalking people — he should be able to find this chick in a jiffy!"

Italy wanted to question how England, a nation that didn't even consider itself European, would find a woman in Germany. (And Italy had the suspicion that America just wanted to visit his boyfriend, but he wasn't going to say that.)

But Italy didn't have time to question as America grasped onto his hand and dragged him out of the house. America's hand, it was warm underneath the gloves.

...

"Man, being in England's place always makes me feel a little down, you know?"

Italy was about to respond when he got shoved by a rushing pedestrian in a large, tan overcoat. The man did not bother to say he was sorry or turn around to make sure Italy was okay. He continued on his way, his blonde hair escaping Italy's sight as he stumbled on the slick pavement of London.

"Woah, woah, you okay, little dude?" America asked as he grabbed onto Italy to not make him topple over. Italy nodded but his expression spoke it all for him.

"England's people are rude...and grouchy looking," Italy said. America lets go of Italy once he was on his own two feet and grinned sheepishly.

"Yeah, but you learn to like 'em. They just take a while to warm up."

Italy bobbed his head as he followed America.

London. Italy hasn't visited it in a long time. It was beautiful, in a dark way. It never had the luxurious waters, or breathtaking palaces — the ever-present gray skies and cold winds too harsh to ignore as the dull bricks gleamed oppressively in the daylight, the sun never fully out. It was fast paced — the life in London. It had a hard edge to it, a mighty force that has withstood a lot. Bombings, wars, social injustices—just how many queens have stepped on the pavement as he and proclaimed to be walking the steps of divinity? How many tears—how much blood has been shed on these rugged, gray slabs of concrete to only be washed away with the weeping clouds, the sun never shining for its ungrateful beggars.

So much time has passed, and Italy has to remind himself that England is older than him.

Italy breathed in the air that is London. Yes, London has never fallen. Its people are strong. With its archaic buildings and paradoxical citizens, the city is quite deceiving. And so, maybe Italy shouldn't feel so worried. England, well. He had a good heart (or so America says).

Italy snapped out of his reverie when he focused back on America's soft frown and concerned knit of eyebrows in his face. Italy blinked and tilted his head not squeamish at America's closeness to his own face.

"You okay, Italy? Can ya hear me now? You spaced out for a while, you alright, little dude?"

"I was just thinking about some stuff," Italy replied lazily.

America shoved his hands in his bomber jacket. He stepped back, his mint breath no longer so close. "Yeah? Like what?"

"Oh, nothing," Italy sang.

"I'll never get what's going on in his head," America muttered following Italy's little trots. America took the lead and Italy followed him as they slowly exited the heart of London and into the outskirts through foot and crowded dark subways. America made sure Italy was behind him and in sight once they left the areas of affinity and into the corrupt outskirts of London.

It can be quite rough on any suspecting, or innocent looking victim. America was the hero—he couldn't let Italy be shanked or something! (Or even worse, someone with a sweet smile offering Italy some candy and it turning out to be someone's precious cannabis.)

"I didn't know London was this big," Italy said clutching onto the back of America's jacket.

"London has its good and bad, just don't stray away, 'kay?"

America and Italy passed by some beefy looking construction men in neon. One of them eyed up Italy and smiled a toothy smile. America sped up and Italy waved obliviously when the man smiled at him. He wanted friends, this man in neon was smiling at him, so he didn't understand why America was grabbing onto his hand like he was about to get murdered. They are being rude?

"He's taken. The bloke's with 'em—get your sorry arses back to work," one of them rumbled deeply. That didn't mean he didn't take a glance and appreciate what he saw. And just like that the construction men faded away as they became small little dots of bright yellow in the distance, the sound of their pounding machines and the ghost smell of their cigarettes never leaving.

Italy looked at America clutching his hand and felt confused. It surely didn't look like they were dating, right? America was simply protecting him from who knows what—he is being kind to him because really, America was a nice guy when he wanted to be and was being supportive! Guys can hold hands and hug, right? It was normal in Europe.

But Italy remembered that the English don't think like Europeans, they were English. So surely, that must be it. A culture shock! Yes. Yes. Nothing else... because surely, they must know what they are making Italy feel like. This heavy knot in his stomach is simply a misunderstanding and the squeezing of his lungs was simply a case of homesickness.

Yes. Yes. Nothing else, at all! America didn't look remarkably tall, and blonde, and strong, and determined, and protective, and most certainly did not have the same angular cheekbones as someone he sobs over on his pillowcase —

The bold number of fifty stitched onto America's dull leather makes Italy want to repress the wave of nausea that comes over him. Those hand stitched letters — the carefully stitched letters that evoke the vivid memory of America hugging and spinning around England oh so happily. He remembered how excited America had been when a blushing England had sowed it for him on a fateful fourth of July. The memory had been sweet, the other nations congratulating America for his new state.

The number was special. It was stitched, it is permanent.

"We're almost there, Italy. Don't die on me!" America said cheerily.

Maybe America does recognize that the air is somber between the two of them now, but doesn't let it show. Or maybe, Italy thought, he blamed it on the London air and didn't want to acknowledge what was said.

Either way, they were both liars.

...

"America? Italy? Why didn't you tell me that you were stopping by you idiots! And Italy, you're soaking wet, America's jacket won't protect you from the rain," England fussed as he ushered the two in into his home. He closed the door of the pouring droplets outside and set off to find the both of them some clean, dry clothes.

"S-So c-cold," Italy chattered as America's jacket was peeled off of his dress shirt in a slushy, sticky fashion. He wiggled out of his quickly as if it were poisonous and continued to curl up within himself to preserve heat.

Italy loathed the cold. He could not stand it — would not stand it! Nothing good came out of the cold, nothing. Blood was seen easier in the snow and when you cried, your tears were like stabbing pieces of ice down your hollow, red cheeks frozen in place as well.

America shook his head like a dog and took off his shoes and socks. Italy did the same, and soon enough England came back with some clean clothes.

"Here, put these on," England instructed as he handed them both the dull looking pieces. His glare landed on America. "You! What were you thinking dragging yourself in the rain all the way from London? You could have called — what if I wasn't here you twat? You have to think about these things —"

Italy blocked out England's pecking and America's whining as he started unbuttoning his shirt with tremulous hands. He took off his shirt and was about to shimmer off his pants when he heard a loud strangled noise.

"Dude, not right here! Go change somewhere else!" America said blushing, looking away. England didn't yell but instead ran a hand through his face tiredly. He started pushing Italy's back and he stumbled forward, looking back at England's straight face with some difficulty as he was being forced to move forward.

"When I said change, I meant in the bathroom, not in public. We've been over this," England said calmly as he slightly pushed Italy's warm, bareback into the large bathroom.

Italy still didn't understand but complied anyway. He didn't want to make England mad so he just chirped out, "Oh. Okay!"

England closed the door and the cold, silent bathroom surrounded him. Has he ever been to England's house, he wondered. He realized that no, he has never stepped foot in England's estate. He is not awed but felt rather lonely in the large bathroom. He would much rather be listening to America and England bicker than hear nothing at all.

America slipped on the gray sweatpants and oversized black shirt over his bare chest with mirth. It was cute how England tried to guess his shirt size and got the black shirt to be a size too large. It was a shared shirt, England liking it all too much after America was gone.

But England didn't look at him with predilection today (he never does, but America knows his moods) or tries to be the affectionate type America knows England is prone to be behind closed doors. Instead, he's hearing the rain pound outside in wait for Italy.

"So, what's got you so wound up?"

England looked at America and felt a weight in his chest. His oblivious America.

"I'll tell you once Italy comes out."

America moved closer, like a child wanting its mother's attention, and whined. "Iggyy. Just tell me."

England didn't lean away from the touch but did not advance it. "Patience, America. It won't be long until Italy comes out."

America rested his head on England's soft, hair and inhaled the scent of strawberry. America smiled.

"Get off of me — Italy will come back any second —" England said trying to wiggle out of America's grip.

"Shhh. Just relax," America said softly.

The two stood there, one with a serene look of defeat, the other with a pleasant smile in the dim corridor of a once empty house outside the soft rains. A crack of thunder boomed outside, flashing the two men in a heat of white through the glass pane windows. The two did not move.

It was as if they were in their own little world — a world made out of glass and aqueous truths, but a force strong enough to call it love.

America started humming and swaying, England peering up and smiling gently. America grinned back down at England.

Italy clutched the cold corridor wood. He didn't know why he was eavesdropping, but he felt it was wrong to destroy such a moment. He had never seen this side of America and England. They acted like good friends at the meeting, never really showing anything much more than friendly banter. He always had his suspicions about the two because of the way they acted but seeing them together, content and at peace with one another made him want to turn away and wither alongside the plants outside.

This feeling. It left his heart feeling such a numbing pain. He wanted that, he decided. Whatever it was binding those two nations together, he wanted it. Lust, deceit, confusion, comfort. Whatever it was, it seemed beautiful.

His paintings...they could never truly capture what he felt. His frescoes, his dainty strokes were magnificent, but it was all so stupid now. The master of art, he was called. What good was it? In the end, it held the same validity as a dream.

 _"I'm no good at this. You're the real artist..."_

 _"No, I like it! Your rabbit is really cute!"_

 _"It's supposed to be a dog."_

 _"Germany tried his best, sí? So, it's Germany's dog. I like it very much."_

 _"You just say that to make me feel better...Thank you."_

"Shouldn't Italy be back by now?" America asked looking down at the calm England. England's eyes, in turn, snapped open and he quickly detached himself from the drowsy grip he had succumbed to.

"He better not be snooping around my house," England muttered darkly as he marched towards the bathroom. He jumped in shock when Italy appeared out of the corridor.

"Italy! Oh, there you are. You had us worried," England said a little surprised at the look of melancholy on Italy.

America popped up beside England and blinked. "How long have you been there, dude?"

Italy tilted his head. "Been where?"

America motioned with his hands embarrassed. "You know, there. Creepin'"

England stepped on America's foot harshly without looking away from Italy. America yelped in pain. "Don't mind America, Italy. He doesn't know what he's talking about, right?"

America didn't take the hint. "No, I could have sworn I saw Italy peeking at us through the hallway. I had a feeling or something."

"Was I?" Italy asked with wide eyes. He stepped forward, revealing his whole body. "I was in the bathroom, are you sure you didn't just see something?"

America nodded. "Ya-huh man. I could have sworn —"

Another crack of thunder came tumbling down, the light making Italy's amber eyes almost glow in the pitch darkness behind him.

"N-Never mind, little dude. Never mind," America stuttered. Why did England have to give Italy a black shirt and black pants? That was like asking to be murdered! But Italy wouldn't do that...It was almost a joke to think about sweet Italy like that.

"Are you done interrogating Italy? I have something that I have to tell you both," England said motioning the both of them to his kitchen.

"Oh yeah, we have to ask you something too!" America said as he followed England. Italy stayed behind, choosing to watch the both of them and stay quiet. The knot was tightening, another loop and squeeze—it was all too simple.

"Before you ask, I have to tell you that Russia has issued an emergency meeting tomorrow evening in Moscow. I called you a couple days ago, but you wouldn't pick up and your president didn't know where you were," England said as he sat down at the table.

"Good thing we came back to Europe! Me and Italy didn't even realize almost a week had gone by," America said proudly.

"Yes, congratulations," England deadpanned.

America rolled his eyes. "Supportive as always. What does Russia want, though? Who else is coming?"

England wished he had a cup of tea with him now. "The G8 members, Austria and Hungary if I remember correctly."

America paused. "That's different. Why Hungary and Austria?"

England shrugged. "I'm as sure as you are. I'm sure Hungary forced her way in and Austria is just tagging along."

America made a sound of agreement. "They are always together."

England leaned forward. "There's talk that Prussia will be present."

"Wouldn't he have to be? He's fillin' in for Germany, and Germany is in the G8, so wouldn't he have to come?"

England frowned. "He hasn't come to the previous meetings, I wouldn't suspect that he would attend this one."

"Yeah, but he has to come to this one, right?"

England sighed. "I wouldn't count on it, but I suppose it is not impossible."

"So Prussia's going to be there?" Italy asked hopefully.

"What? No, I did not say that. I said he might be going to the meeting —"

"Yay, he's coming to the meeting!" Italy cheered.

England and America sent each other a look. "Right," America said uneasily.

England bridged his hands together, his bony elbows on the table and cheek on the said bridged hands. "So, what exactly have you been up to?"

...

"That is quite the adventure you and Italy have gone on," England said evenly after hearing the rushed sentences of America and Italy, one interrupting the other—correcting and adding on until England had to snap at them to tell him one at a time.

"Yeah, it was. I can't believe it's almost been a week since the last meeting. Time sure flies by," America said with a yawn.

"Italy, are you feeling alright?" England asked the quiet Italy. It was just like that conference meeting — Italy's gaze somewhere England could never see.

"Just fine," Italy answered eventually, the table top still holding his attention. America poked Italy's cheek.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're acting all deep and stuff again. You sure you 'kay little dude?"

Italy turned to America and America stopped poking his cheek. "Just fine," Italy smiled. His soft stretch from cheek to cheek not entirely reaching his usual glow.

"Are you sure? You seem a little down in the dumps —"

"England I'm feeling kind of tired. I'm gonna go take a nap," Italy said as he scooted his chair — the terrible screeching sound that made England visibly wince as Italy left the kitchen in a slow trot.

"Has he been like this throughout the whole week?" England whispered to America once Italy was out of earshot.

"Naw, he's been his usual self all week. It's really weird, he just got all depressed right now — he wasn't like this even when we landed," America whispered loudly back.

"He hasn't shown any odd tendencies? Moments of sudden silence or looks of pensiveness. You haven't done anything to make him feel bad, right? Italy doesn't get offended easily but if you hit a sore spot —"

"If I what? What were you gonna say?" America asked.

England sighed. "Should've known. Poor lad."

"What, what!" America insisted not liking to be left out.

"Us. We were just rubbing it in his face that we are in a relationship, and he is in fact not. How insensitive can we be? Love is a touchy subject right now," England groaned.

"Actually, it shouldn't have bothered him," America said plainly.

England flashed America a look to explain. So America explained.

"On the plane ride to Rhode Island, me and Italy were talking about Germany. I was tellin' him how I actually kinda missed him, everyone does, and Italy didn't get it. So, I had to explain even further, and I guess it ended up with us talking about his dating status with Germany."

"And," England prompted.

"Italy and Germany were never dating. We got it all wrong. Europe got it all wrong. They were never a thing. Italy didn't even look like he considered it until I mentioned it to him. Talk about harsh," America said sympathetically.

"Wait a moment, they were never dating?" England asked incredulously.

America nodded just as shocked. "Yeah, they were never a thing. Or so Italy says. Now, what is actually happening underneath the sheets, I dunno. But, from the looks of it, I think it's a pretty solid assumption. With what just happened, what is happening, and what Italy told me on the plane, I think Italy is getting really confused."

"This is not good. This is not good. Italy is emotional enough as it is, we can't have him hot and cold about his feelings for Germany. I thought he knew already! This is surprising, to say the least."

America snorted. "Imagine my shock. He said it with such nonchalance too, and that face! He looked so confused and appalled. I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. Whathat in the actual fuck is going on anymore."

"Eloquently put," England deadpanned, "I can't say I'm that surprised. Their behavior in the meetings was a little too distant to be considered privacy or protection. It was odd, the way they acted around each other."

"You think so?" America asked putting his feet on the table. England's eyebrows twitched and America grinned. England despised it when he did this. They quarreled for a bit, the air light. But it didn't last long.

"Hey, wait. Where did Italy go?" America asked as he sat up straighter and removed his feet from the table, the light mood gone.

"He said he was going to go rest, don't you remember?"

"Yeah, but he hasn't been at your house before, right? Does he even know where the bedrooms are?" America asked getting out of his seat and out of the kitchen.

"No...Italy!" England shouted as he moved past America quickly to see if Italy was in the main living room.

America went down the corridor and yelled out Italy's name as well. They searched the whole bottom level, but no sign of Italy.

England and America met back in the kitchen.

"Did you find him?" America asked lifting a plant to check if Italy was hiding underneath.

"He's under a plant, you idiot," England snapped, "And no. I had no such luck either."

"Do you think he snuck upstairs?" America asked already moving up towards the majestic staircase of cold steel.

"He shouldn't be," England said with a frown looking up to America on the cold steps. "You check upstairs, I'll check outside. He couldn't have gotten far."

"But it's pouring outside, he wouldn't be out there!" America exclaimed seeing the rain pound heavily on the glass, window panes.

Drip, drip, drip, the rain continues to fall on those who didn't ask for it.

"I'm checking anyway. Italy isn't exactly rational," England said as he put on his raincoat and grabbed an umbrella, opening his glass door for the worst.

Gray, gray skies. The heavens are crying. That was what was said about rain. God must always be crying over England. Just what luck Italy had to be outside — God likes Italy. It was always sunny, always shining. There is never a cloud in sight, the sun smiling beautifully down on precious, innocent Feliciano.

Yet, the waters submerge Italy, leaving Feliciano gasping and crying into the abyss of water to never be seen again, his tears falling deeper and deeper in the shallow waters once dried, puddles splashing from children once Italy is bent over heaving and gasping onto the dry docks, the heat on his back ever present.

"Italy! Where are you! Italy—!" England's shouts died on his lips when he saw Italy twirling a flower in his hand by the garden. Italy had a black umbrella over his head and was squatting down. He was twirling a wilting tulip, the petals dripping small droplets of water, the water sliding off the stems in a rhythmic motion.

Drip, drip, drip.

England clutched onto the handle of his own umbrella and jogged over to Italy.

Drip, drip, drip. Did Elliot ever turn off that faucet? Italy hoped so.

"Italy! Just what in the bloody hell are you thinking going out in this weather? Are you mad! We need to go back inside —"

Drip. Drip. Drip. The rain continues to fall on those who didn't ask for it.

"— I can show you my garden some other day when it's not raining. Come on—"

"Hey, England. What do tulips mean?" Italy asked continuing to inspect the white tulip. He rubbed his fingers down the stem and felt the small green dip underneath his fingers, his peach skin consuming the stem. To think, he, useless Italy, still had so much power over something so insignificant.

"What do they mean? They can represent many things —"

"But what do they mean. Love? Sadness? I hope love, I like that one better," Italy lamented.

England hesitated, the streams of water from the umbrella falling down in perfect lines of miniature waterfalls in front of him.

"They represent love. Perfect love. As this one is white, it means a pure, perfect love. A yellow one means a hopeless love, but love nonetheless."

Italy smiled. "And Lavenders?"

His ears took in the sound of nothingness. Where did the birds go? Wouldn't it be lovely if they sang instead of the harsh pellets hitting the ground in an annoying staccato.

"Will answering these questions make you go back inside?"

"I guess so."

"Let's see...Lavenders? Lavenders most commonly symbolize love, loyalty, and devotion. But it can also mean distrust."

"And Bachelor Buttons?"

England looked surprised at such a specific request. "The most common is delicacy and purity, but it can also mean anticipation for fulfilling one's dreams. A youthful freedom."

Italy gazed down at the array of flowers in front of him. He wondered for a fleeting moment if he felt envious of England. Even without words, sound, or touch, he could convey a message. Just what could England be telling the world? Just what did England's heart bleed?

England offered his hand down to Italy. Italy peered up and saw the streams of water fall down to the ground, the columns never relenting, and yet there stood England, strong and sturdy. He didn't seem bothered by the rain, the winds did not chill him to the bone. Italy took the hand and he was hoisted up gently.

Italy kept his head down as he was lead back to the house. He unclenched his hold on the dead tulip and let it go.

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._

 _..._

Being fussed over by America and England wasn't as nice as Italy had imagined it to be. He wanted peace at the moment. He wanted to be left completely alone and away from the two males scolding him from "worry" and for his "recklessness". He dropped his head on the table and felt his cheek hit the cold wood.

England pursed his lips and then sighed. "I think Italy's heard enough. We have a long day tomorrow anyway, we should probably prepare for bed. It's getting late."

America didn't seem to want to let this go but relented anyway. "Yeah, that probably is a good idea. Here, I'll show ya where you're staying little dude."

Italy made his odd little sound and followed America. America opened an ancient looking door, no doubt a sight not seen by many, and let Italy gaze upon the dark room flooded with light in an instant.

"This is it. We'll be leavin' at around five in the morning tomorrow so," America said.

"Thanks, America," Italy said gratefully.

America smiled with a nod and closed the door.

The room was strangely minimal. Minimal in the sense that the antiquities that were held inside were not much. The room held a distinguished air and was probably of great importance once upon a time. Who knew how old the room was itself, and who knew who had slept in it. Maybe no one at all. Because the bed looked quite new, and the vanity was old but not antique, and the curtains were drawn and knotted with a steady crease of years of entanglement.

Italy wondered for a brief moment if England still took in colonies into his house. He wondered if Hong Kong was lonely and alone on the other side of the world and if just maybe this room was for him. A room never used from a traumatic experience that seemed quickly mended from the brief touches and smiles of America and England. Italy wondered if his own colonies ever miss him.

He laughed.

Italy sat on the bed and bounced a bit on the cold comforter. He fell on his side, his left cheek on the nylon material. He could hear his heart beat through his ear and the curtains sway. Did England not have blinds? The breeze was nice.

Italy gazed at the brown vanity with little scratches and little chips. Just who England was preparing that empty vanity for was a question that plagued Italy as the murmurs of England and America rang through the narrow hallways.

Italy was sure they were talking about him. He could feel it, he didn't need to hear it. He just knew, they just had to be! How could they not? Even he did not know what possessed him to go outside in the freezing rain again with clothing that wasn't even his or an umbrella that wasn't his own.

His mind had strayed it seemed. His mind wandered, and it thought thoughts that were too controversial for his own sake, and he felt his heart simply pump for blood. He felt it through his fingers, through his breast and through the curling of his toes. But just what is it that he feels?

Dead? No, he was not that depressed. Sad? Most definitely, but even with all the words in the world, sadness will never just be sadness. Angry? No, he wasn't angry. He can't think of the last time he was angry at anything really. Numb? He felt alive, he wasn't incapable of having genuine emotion.

Italy bit his lips as he wondered why he had to be so bipolar. Smart people are smart and they are this. Happy people are happy and they are like this. Philosophy of the centuries, a happiness of forever, enlightened knowledge, and recent cowardice made for Feliciano's dilemma. It wasn't fair, he thought. He should be like...

"Him loves I. Him loves I. Him loves I."

Why couldn't his eyes shut? He wanted to sleep yet here he was thinking, and thinking, and thinking. Did Japan feel remorse, Italy wondered. He has been so absorbed in his own desperation he had completely forgotten to acknowledge Japan. He was sure Japan was worried in his reserved, polite way. He hadn't asked, or even called! What a friend he was.

And maybe that was why his tears were forming a puddle on England's lovely comforters. Maybe, Italy was crying right now, the clouds gone and the people sad.

What irony it would be if Germany was shining right now, a beautiful sunshine with fluffy clouds.

...

"We should not be doing this," England said.

"Aww, but why not? Italy's asleep and won't know," America said snuggling himself into the bedsheets.

"This doesn't feel right...to be doing this right now," England said unconvinced.

"It's fine. Me and Italy did this on the plane ride here."

England winced. "Love your phrasing."

America looked at him dumbly before widening his eyes. He quickly denied it. "No, no! Not like that! Jeez, dirty mind much?"

"Belt up!" England said with flushed cheeks again.

America scooched closer and bumped England's shoulder playfully.

"Don't be like that. We have every other night to make you scream my name, so —"

"Just read, you bloody oaf!" England said embarrassed.

America laughed. England sat up straighter on the bed and waited for America to grab the thick book by the table with the word: journal.

America suddenly turned serious. "Hey, these are actually pretty deep so don't think this is like that time back in World War Two with the Italy tracker thing."

England blinked. "Oh yes, whatever did happen to that?"

"Beats me. Probably in here somewhere, but you know. It will probably be a couple entries away."

"Maybe it's in a different book altogether," England proposed now interested where the other source is.

"Maybe," America agreed.

America took a deep breath in. "Alright, here we go." America read with a terrible German accent.

 _ **"12. May 1933**_

 _ **France, why do you hate me. What have I done to you?**_

 _ **I could not think of anything other than relief in my previous entry, the high of post-war running through me too clearly. I could barely concentrate on signing the treaty, the treaty that took six months to imprison me. Italy, despite being equally as broke as I am, still smiles and laughs. He came by earlier asking for a job but I had to kick him out.**_

 _ **I'm...equally as broke.**_

 _ **I am not the only one it seems. America, how is life faring for you? The soup need more salt?"**_

"Oh, so not cool man!" America exclaimed.

"It's over now, love. This is a different Germany speaking here," England soothed.

America sent England a grateful look and continued.

 _ **"This man named Adolf Hitler seems to be popular as of late. He makes big claims. He says he will make me great again, that it wasn't my fault for what the enemies did. He speaks with such vigor and charisma, I do not see why Brother does not like him. He seems promising—"**_

"Yikes, Nazi Germany already?" America asked dreading the future entries.

"You do realize that Adolf Hitler started rising in power literally the same year World War One ended?" England deadpanned.

"Yeah, but still!"

"Just continue reading."

 _ **"I like him even with his...health issue. Uncontrollable flatulence is very serious of course...and libido medications are very necessary of course..."**_

America stared and made sure he read that right. America couldn't contain himself as he laughed uncontrollably. He looked over to England's disgusted face and cracked up even more. America could feel the tears escaping his eyes and knew he should probably shut up so Italy can sleep, but it was too funny!

"It's not that funny! I swear you have the mind of a child," England said once he was tired of hearing America wheeze beside him in absolute joy.

America kept laughing lightly as he wiped a tear out of his eye. "Oh come on, you know it was great."

England sighed. "Please just keep reading."

 _ **"He has good ideas that seem to be working, so I guess that's all I can ask for. You see...Brother is weary of Adolf. He refuses to be civil with him, and I always have to apologize for his behavior, but Adolf doesn't seem to mind it much.**_

 _ **What a nice guy.**_

 _ **Brother tells me I shouldn't listen to him. But it's hard not to, he's my Chancellor. I don't understand why, and I try to make Brother understand, but he just yells at me for being a dumbass and blind. Brother has been tense with me lately...**_

 _ **On those days, Adolf just pats my shoulder and tells me he's stuck in the past. Brother doesn't see what he sees, and that makes him mad.**_

 _ **I don't think that's it but if he says so...**_

 _ **Even Italy doesn't seem all that thrilled. I wonder what they don't see, things will be great! Things will...change. It wasn't fair what they did—France did. England at least had a look of disgust and didn't seem to absolutely revel in smugness.**_

 _ **Though, I do not agree with everything my new boss says. Some of the things he has been doing...I don't agree with.**_

 _ **Personally, I do not see anything wrong with the Jews. To go as far as boycotting their business seems silly to me. They have wronged us many times, I won't deny that, but they are still Germans, my citizens. I will have to ask him one day why he detests the Jews so much. The burnings and open acts of violence were uncalled for.**_

 _ **Also, as of late, he has been questioning why I never bring home a woman. I told him that was none of his business, but he would not stop pestering (demanding) things out of me. It seemed as if all my answers were a double meaning to him, none holding validity in his eyes.**_

 _ **I suppose he has right to be suspicious...Berlin was, ah, questionable."**_

America looked to England to explain.

"Let's just say that Las Vegas had nothing on Berlin. Quite a lot of...ah, variety," England said blushing a tad.

America tilted his head. A place crazier than Las Vegas? In the twenties? In Germany? England had to be senile.

"Yeah right. No way Germany was partying it up that hardcore in the twenties. You must be trippin'."

"No, I remember it quite well..." England said with a growing blush and America wondered if he touched England's cheek if would it be burning.

"You know what, I'm just gonna keep reading. You can...do your kinky stuff in your head," America said deciding that maybe he didn't want to know what was going on in Berlin. It's a horror enough to have been to a German Sparkle Party...

"I am not kinky! Stop interrupting and read the bleeding thing," England snapped. America shrugged and did so.

 _ **"But even so, not dating a woman does not equate to no feelings of love. If I were to ever fall in love, which I haven't, it would be painfully obvious. I have been told that I am quite easy to read.**_

 _ **I don't think he understands that although I appear to same as him—young—if the experience I have could show through my body as wrinkles and bony fingers, I would be the same as his brittle, great grandfather. Would he question his great-grandfather? I asked him this and he tells me, no. I am different, I am a country.**_

 _ **I don't see how it's different, I am still older than him by all means, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things I am an infant disguised as a man. I have nothing on France, England, Norway, Russia, China, or even India in terms of age.**_

 _ **I remember Brother telling me once to enjoy the first fifty years of my life. I was small back then when he told me this, barely to his knee and I just tugged at his coat urging him to explain. He picked me up and carried me to the kitchen. He set me on the cold counter so we could be at eye level and I swung my legs being careful to not hit the wood. He explained something to me on that day.**_

 _ **'You're a smart kid because I'm your awesome big brother, right? Of course! So listen to the awesome Prussia. How old am I?'**_

 _ **It was a trick question. Technically, he was only around two hundred years old if he wanted to be referred by Brandenburg-Prussia, and even younger if just by Prussia. But I knew what he meant. So I said seven hundred years old.**_

 _ **He smiled proudly and said very good. I felt proud.**_

 _ **'And how long does a human live?' He then asked me. I said forty.**_

 _ **'That's right. They don't last long. So what do they do? They make the most out of whatever God intended them to do. But you and I aren't like them.'**_

 _ **I asked why. I was only ten years old back then.**_

 _ **'Because they aren't awesome nations! They are mortals. I don't look like I'm seven hundred, do I? That's because I'm so awesome of course, but have you ever wondered why I haven't aged like the hags in the market?' I didn't. He was Brother and that was it.**_

 _ **'We can't age physically. The spirit of our nation is forever young. You've read about China, right? How he's thousands of years old? Would you believe me if I told you that he looks exactly like me and not a day older?' I told him of course, he was Brother. He shook his and gained a watery smile.**_

 _ **'What I'm trying to say Luddy**_ _ **is that you will never get these fifty years back. Your body can grow and look older than it is, but this is the closest thing you'll ever get to being human.' And that thought had made me feel sad. I didn't fully understand it back then. What Brother was trying to tell me but Brother had made such a sad face and I slapped both of his cheeks to make him stop being sad. I was hiccupping and crying but Brother shouldn't look sad.**_

 _ **I told him that I'll always be human.**_

 _ **And sometimes I still think maybe I wish I was human. So that the things I know could be considered wise to a kind that doesn't live long instead of naivety to a kind that lives forever. But then I think back to Italy and how he is labeled naive and stupid. He is stupid, but not in the sense that he is not intelligent.**_

 _ **I'm going on a tangent...I originally opened this to say that I feel uneasiness brewing within me. I don't know what it is, I asked Brother about the nasty feeling in my stomach but he told me to go take some medicine. I've had this feeling once before. Before The Great War. I don't want to go to war again...I really, really don't want to go to war again but I will if I must.**_

 _ **Things are going to change soon. I can feel it. For good or for the worse, I do not know. Either way...In the end, it is not my choice is it?"**_

"That's it," America said.

"That didn't tell us much of anything," England said.

"Yeah I know but this is a journal, you know? There's plenty of articles and books about World War Two so that's not the real issue here," America said as he took off his glasses and wiped them clean.

"Here, let me see it," England said grabbing the boom from America's lap.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Whatcha looking for?" America asked after a moment of silence.

England's eyes roamed the page once more, flipping and flipping again. "For clues that would explain Germany leaving."

"But like, what if Germany was abducted or something."

England rolled his eyes. "Oh please. Why would anyone abduct Germany?"

America wiggled on the bed. "I dunno, hate crime or something!"

"Well, I suppose forced abduction is not an option we can eliminate...but I find it highly unlikely."

"But there."

"But there. Also, drug rehabilitation is a possibility. Being in a gang is also an option. On a vacation yet another. In outer space, in a coma, in a traveling circus, amnesia, D.I.D.—there are bloody a million explanations!" England huffed out.

America opened his mouth widely. "Wow, how did you come up with all that? What is Germany is an acrobat, oh my god, oh my god! A gang? Really?"

"..."

"Is it bad that I can believe that?" America said.

"Germany is intimidating, I would believe it."

"Oooooor, what if Germany is a bodyguard of a super famous star and I don't know, never returned?"

"Then we would know if this star is super famous," England said getting irritated that nothing was really helping them.

"No need to get snappy dude. Just proposing ideas."

"Yes, but leave that migraine for tomorrow. There will be plenty of time to share. Right now I'm trying to see for any clues but they are bloody useless."

America peered over England's shoulder. "Alright let's see. Hitler, Hitler, yadda yadda. So we know Prussia doesn't like Hitler. That's a thing right?"

"Not really, that wouldn't affect their relationship today."

"Ah, but it could have!" America began, "Prussia is friends with Japan, and Japan was allied with Germany. Prussia from the sounds of it doesn't hate Germany but is disappointed and angry at the big man. So even there could be some tension there. You know, 'why does my brother like Japan but not me even though we're the same', kind of angst. It also says that Italy isn't thrilled about this. Tension is important here. Because things are swept under the rug always come back and haunts you...Also, from what you're telling me, Berlin was a liberal hotspot, right?"

England nodded. "Yes. Very liberal. Queers, trannies..."

"Right, so I'm just going to imagine it being California. That must have driven Hitler crazy. Germany crazy and!" America pointed to the cursive lettering, "Germany admits to himself that he is easy to read. 'If I were in love, which I am not, it would be painfully obvious.' Unquote, boom," America said proudly.

"Is Germany aware of his feelings for Italy by this point then?" England asked taking in the sight of the penmanship. Oh, how he missed the days of calligraphy.

"From the sounds of it, no. But it doesn't sound like he's not open to the idea at least. What I'm more interested in is the compliance of his boss. Germany said that Hitler was trying to get him up with a woman. Big deal, there will always be that one boss. We all know that the Nazis were sexists and we can look at this in two ways," America said in lecture mode. He held up one finger to begin.

"A. Hitler wanted Germany to have a straight relationship because that's what Hitler wanted his country to be like, so duh. Germany, Ludwig, had to have a dolled up chick naturally as well. It was more symbolic than anything. Or B," America held up another finger, "Hitler knew of Germany's super gayness and past rumors of Italy. This is probably the most likely, but we don't know. Can you imagine how he probably reacted when they were together? Hitler's was a manipulative bastard, he could make a lot of things happen behind the scenes."

"Yes...quite negatively, I'm sure. I have no doubt that there must have been a major argument between those two," England said.

"Enough to make him go M.I.A.?" America questioned.

"Yes."

"..."

"..."

"So, when he came back...that was?" America said not wanting to believe it.

England didn't look pleased either. "I can not recall a time I've ever seen Germany so horribly beaten up. Just where in the world could he have been to have a missing ear? He had burn marks on his neck and who knows where else. There were stitches and I'm still not sure if all his fingers were underneath those black gloves."

"Yeah, me neither. Seeing Germany like that just really hit hard, you know? What we had done," America said softly.

England looked down. "Yes...It was a time of great sadness and shock. I think even Russia was appalled, but not by much. I don't wish that for any nation. Ever."

"Yeah. Me neither. Good thing the world isn't like that anymore, huh? Because even back then, Germany was a weird guy. Sure, it was Nazi Germany, but he wasn't all that much different. If that makes sense. It probably doesn't. Germany's always had a good heart. Even if it is misguided and kinda easy to mold."

"What are you trying to get at, America?" England asked already knowing this.

America shifted a bit. "What I'm trying to say is that Germany is predictable, and spontaneous at the same time. You know what he will say, but at the same time, you kinda don't. Remember how shocked we were when we learned that he was M.I.A.? For two years? So many rumors spread. But the only 'reliable' source we had was Italy. And you remember what he told us, right?"

"Yes. But you really think that was the truth?"

"I don't see a reason for Italy to lie. Even back then, Germany wasn't a cold monster. That war was like a civil war to him. Internal strife is his own and you know any way to help the pain is one we're gonna take." America smiled. "Besides, I'm pretty sure we're all weak for children."

England nodded. "I see. So you really think that Germany was helping the jews? Like Italy had told us? Helping this little girl? I don't know, I find this hard to believe. Why would Germany do that?...Are you suggesting that Hitler did something to Germany for getting attached to this little girl? Hiding her or something?"

America shrugged. "At some point, you really learn to stop caring about sides. Germany fell hard for Italy, and if he really were a stickler to everything his boss told him to do, then we would have dealt with a very different person. It's not like Germany has never said fuck you before. What my question is, though, why. Why would he do that?"

 _Nineteen forty-three. It was a horrible year for both sides. Germany went missing and Italy had told America that Germany really was a good guy._

 _Safe inside a bomb cellar, sticky moisture clung onto the dim room as rumbles had echoed through their feet and through Italy's beating heart in cold, dreary England. Italy had been toying with a food can and had wondered out loud what it would have been like if he'd gotten to say goodbye to Germany. What it would have been like to say sorry to the man that had given him so much, but apparently not enough. And then Italy had spun around as the lightbulb had swayed and shattered to the ground._

 _Because Germany was such a nice guy, he had repeated with tears._

"I'm pretty sure you just answered your own question, love. He had an alliance with Russia first, but then that turned out to be quite a failure. He didn't expect for you to join either, but Japan always was a little ambitious. He was already starting to lose in '43 and that is the same year Italy leaves. Another alliance gone. And from this entry, we now know that the pressure from Hitler is as strong as ever even before the war began. Take into consideration all the emotional mess there was within him and think, was it such a surprise that he would just defy the regime?" England answered back.

"No...I guess not. We'll just have to find out later. If Germany really did help this girl and become close to her. She has to have some signifance. I'm thinking a Soviet spy he had to kill or a test subject. Or maybe just a citizen—a neighbor, you know?"

"I'm putting money on that's she's a spy. But not a Soviet spy. A resistance spy. Wouldn't that be something? To go missing to go join the resistance?"

America widened his eyes. "Woah. He wouldn't have! He...But he could have? This makes me want to read even more now!"

England rolled his eyes. "Well isn't that refreshing."

"...You know, maybe Germany went insane. The meds back then weren't all that great, after all," America said seriously.

"If we broke underneath normal human conditions, we would have all committed suicide by the fifth year of being a nation. No, he can't go insane, it is literally impossible to for us. Unless of course, that's the vast majority of the population," England said. "As for medications. We were all under the same things, so I don't think that was it either."

"True, true. We were all kinda the same crazy," America agreed.

"We'll just have to wait and see. There's still more to read for tomorrow. We need to go to bed," England said yawning.

America flicked his wrist and saw the little digital screen telling him it was already eleven thirty. "Wow, it's late."

He took off his watch and gently placed it on the table. He searched the knob for the light bulb a couple times, missing it a couple times before switching it off with a soft click. The room was immersed in black immediately and America snuggled up closer to England.

Soon enough they fell asleep.

...

 **Italian Colonies —** _ **Italy was part of the "Scramble for Africa" frenzy that struck Europe in the nineteenth century. When Italy was going out and gaining Eastern African colonies, he was at this point considered**_ _ **"The Italian Empire". (Very smol**_ _ **empire but an empire.) He wasn't very successful at first, but around World War II, he tried again and was luckier. These countries are now free, of course.**_

 **Berlin in post-World War I** — _ **Berlin in the 1920's was the place to be if you were gay or transgender. There were many gay nightclubs and some of the first surgeries for transgender people were performed in Berlin. Magazines, strip clubs, bars, drag shows — it was all there in the nightlife of Berlin. It sort of became fashionable to be homosexual.**_

 **Burnings and Boycotting —** _ **Once Hitler came into office in 1933, he immediately started off his rule with the burnings of books that he deemed unacceptable to the Nazi way of life. This included the magazines and photos of the once liberal Berlin and many other texts that were 'Jewish' and 'Non-Aryan'. Hitler also enforced boycotting of many Jewish businesses in hopes that the German people wouldn't see the Jews as human, but it backfired as many still did business with them.**_

 **Soup Need More Salt, America? —** _ **In reference to the long soup lines during the Great Depression. Hitler used the Great Depression to his advantage to make the German people distrust the federal government and in turn look to the Nazi party that was actually "progressing" things.**_

 **The Jews Have Wronged Us Many Times, But They Are Still Germans —** _ **Since Germany is the personification of the German people of the given time era, Germany reflects the ideals of the masses, NOT the government. With Nazi propaganda beginning to circulate and be enforced (book burnings, boycotting, etc.) many Germans felt that Jews did some bad things, but not all were bad. Many didn't hate the Jews, they simply didn't care.**_

 **English, Not Europeans —** _ **The people of England sometimes feel like they are not European. They are English, very different. Hence, why France calls England Black Sheep. England has always been different. Some will be highly offended if you even misuse the word British.**_

 **Brandenburg-Prussia —** _ **The first official name for Prussia. Technically, Prussia should be around America's age if one were to base it off of pure historical data, but since Himaruya**_ _ **drew "Prussia" as part of the Teutonic Knight Order, that means he's been around since the 12th**_ _ **century.**_


	10. Cauldron Heart

Chapter Ten — Cauldron Heart

...

"America?"

"HERE!"

"Thank you for screaming America...much APPRECIATED. China?"

"Here. Loud westerners are so annoying."

"Italy?"

"I'm here!"

"France?"

"Here for you _mon ami."_

"Go fuck a cactus France."

"I've done you, so."

"I don't need to know about your bloody wet dreams —"

"Kol, kol, kol, Russia is present~"

" — So go shove a flaming di — oh yes. Roll call. Russia's here. Japan?"

"Here."

"Hungary?"

"Here!"

"And Austria."

"Sadly present."

"Aren't you forgetting someone England?" Hungary asked feeling like something wasn't right but couldn't remember what it was. England shuffled his papers and sat back down in his own chair. He skimmed the list again. "I don't believe so."

"Canada is here..." Canada said beside America clutching onto his bear.

The air around France and England was thick. There was always an air of dislike, but there was an understood comradeship. It seemed the balance had tipped once again and they were back to doing what they did best. Disagreeing.

Italy looked at the door anxiously for Prussia to arrive. He was going to be there, America and England promised, so why was he late? Prussia would have been early...Italy hugged his coat tighter around him. Moscow was still freezing in the summer.

America glared at Russia, and Russia glared back, but when America turned around Russia's eyes would gaze upon the stitched 50 in sadness. It was stitched, it was permanent.

China didn't want to be there at all. Germany personally was not his problem, but his economy was and so he shared the same worry as the room. China had heard that Germany at the moment was going through an unexplainable phenomenon with its stocks and taxes. Citizens weren't paying them for some reason, the crime rate was rising and they were becoming more outspoken. They were becoming restless and in turn, everyone in the plastic chairs squirmed.

Japan sat next to Italy rigid. He hadn't spoken to Italy at all in the past weeks, and now he was feeling guilty. Because Italy looked worse than before, sad yet normal. Japan wanted to apologize but he noted the melancholy mood and decided now was not ideal.

Italy had, of course, came barreling to him with tears and too many hugs apologizing frantically for "leaving him out and stuff" but Japan didn't take any offense to it. He was a small island nation in the far East, he was not surprised to find out that Italy was immersed in his Western theatrics.

Hungary was daring Prussia to enter the meeting room with a murderous look in her eyes glued to the doorframe. She had a meeting with her boss and to say the man was okay would be lying. She had to go buy a new pan because she was so mad.

Austria was still clueless as to what was really going on. He shouldn't have played his piano and baked all weekend, but the fewer nerves he had the better. Especially if Prussia was rumored to arrive.

Canada sighed into his bear's head. He had spoken with Germany last but no one had heard him at the last meeting.

Canada found Germany's presence not as bad as people made him out to be. Germany showed a strange calmness around him, their conversations flowing smoothly of whatever business they were discussing over. And it was in their first meeting alone that he realized that Germany wasn't a constant angry being. Germany would always explode at the world meetings from the chaos, and it seemed the image just stuck with him.

Germany wasn't a bomb or had extreme irascibility to the point of it being with drudgery, he simply liked order and common sense. And Canada didn't find that to be so bad.

Because once Canada actually sat down and talked to him (once Germany remembered who he is) Germany was a fresh breath of air as he actually took his work seriously and didn't have any notable eccentricities.

The man had a sense of humor, but Canada didn't think Germany realized it. Germany never went out of his way to be funny, yet his monotone voice and candid remarks were quite funny to Canada. And in turn, Canada's pacifistic nature made Germany not have a stroke.

Yes, their meetings, not in great number, were ones of...acquaintances? Germany didn't hate Canada, and Canada didn't hate Germany.

And it was that familiar air of trust that made Ludwig ask something to Matthew one meeting:

" _Canada, do you ever wonder why we even exist."_

Canada had never pegged Germany to be philosophical. But Canada had responded because he knew he would listen.

" _I think all of us do, eh? I think it's something we all eventually think about."_

Germany hadn't been appeased from that answer if Canada remembered correctly. If anything, he had seemed more off-put about it.

" _Yes, I suppose we all do. But don't you ever think that we are useless? Our government controls us, there are countless of other organizations humans have for government that we cannot attend simply for time sake, and the people don't know about us."_

Canada couldn't respond because it had been true. And then, he had started to doubt his existence.

The belief in God, well, that was human-made too. They weren't protectors of their people, they weren't divine beings ever knowing.

" _...I don't really know why we're here, but I'm glad that we are. Our life isn't easy, of course...but it's not all bad. We all have something to live for, I think, and whatever that is should be reason enough."_

And Germany didn't talk about it again. He simply nodded his head and continued to tell him about the Rio meeting. They didn't do much after that. Germany had to be whisked away on a plane an hour later.

And Canada had tried to tell them all of this in the earlier meeting. He had even stayed afterward, witnessing America and England's great little chat, but Italy didn't notice him. He had been shouting at him but Italy just scoured off once he heard the janitors coming to clean up the room for the closing time.

Canada sighed again and wondered if Prussia really was going to come. Prussia was a good friend of his, he wondered why he hasn't come by and complained like he always does. Canada flickered his gaze towards Italy and pondered what was going on in his head right now. Canada can't recall a time when Italy looked so sad.

"Let's get this started, yes? I don't think I need to say why we are all here," Russia said with a tired smile. He was still sick, the pain of having so much land and so many people ripped away from you was not an easy one to let pass.

America looked ready to jump out of his seat. "I have leads, you guys! I have —"

"Wait. Italy, can you take out the journal and place it in the middle of the table?" China commanded cutting off America.

Italy reached down to his coat and realized that he didn't have it. His eyes widened, and he started panicking.

"Are you okay it —" France asked to deaf ears.

He didn't have it. He didn't have it. He didn't have it. Did he forget? Where was it last night? By his bedside. No, it wasn't. Was it? He put it in this morning, he saw it this morning or was it last night. It was by the garden, did he have it in the garden? He had last night, he knew he did —

America slid the journal towards the center of the table smoothly. The book slid, turned a tad bit to the right, and was proudly displayed to the "world". Italy should have known.

"I thought only Italy was supposed to have the book," Hungary said.

"Yes, America. Why do you have the book?" France asked.

"You didn't steal it did you?" China asked narrowing his eyes.

"Did America break a deal?" Russia asked before coughing. China patted his back but didn't remove his suspicious gaze.

"You better not have bullied Italy into giving it to you, I saw both you and England staying after the meeting to talk to Italy," Hungary said accusingly.

America looked around and waved his hands. "No, no, you have it all wrong! I didn't steal this book, Jesus. Italy came to me for help — tell 'em Italy."

"I did," Italy said lifting his head up from his arms.

America nodded. "See. I didn't steal this book, Italy came to me for help a couple days ago."

"So why were you talking to Italy afterward if you didn't want it?" China asked knowing fully well how America operated.

America looked a bit uncomfortable. "I was just offering my sympathies, dude. No ulterior motive."

Italy furrowed his brows. "No, you asked me if you could have it. You told me, 'fucking give me the —"

"What nice imagination you have!" America said with a shrill voice and a forced laughter.

"I knew it, you were trying to force it out of him," Hungary hissed already in a foul mood.

"So you did steal it," China said smugly.

"Italy, it wasn't just America was it. England was there as well?" France asked kindly.

"England was there too," Italy said not getting what the big deal was. The room was getting colder, the radiation of suspicion directly towards England and America.

"A partner in crime I see," France said to England.

"I had no part in this, frog. Don't think for a second I would try to —"

"But you demanded the book too," Italy said innocently. England glared at Italy, and he sunk down in his seat.

"Oh, so now we have two liars!" Hungary said.

"It would seem so," China agreed.

"Now wait a tick, I only said that because America couldn't straight out ask Italy for the book and the poor sap was getting confused. If I hadn't demanded the book, it would have been a mess," England said trying to defend off the stares.

"So not cool man! Traitor!" America said hurt.

England looked away.

"Trouble in paradise, _mon ami?"_ France asked mockingly. England's eyes flashed an acidic green, the anger brewing within him viscously.

"Japan, you know I wouldn't do that, right?" America pleaded.

Japan looked uncomfortable with everyone looking at him. "I do not see a reason why Italy would lie to us..."

Oh, that hurt. America squawked. "Look I'm not the bad guy here, if everyone's pointing fingers, it should be to Russia!"

"And why do you say that comrade?" Russia said tightly with a sugary, sweet smile.

America placed all of his weight on the table, both his hand flat on the surface. He glared as he leaned forward. "Because we all know you were super butthurt about losing Prussia. Prussia just came back and suddenly Germany is gone? I dunno about you, but that screams abduction to me!"

"Russia's too weak right now to be taking over Germany," China defended.

"Hasn't stopped him before!" America said back.

"I do not know where Germany is. I said it once, and I will say it again. I don't have Germany," Russia said steely. He was glowing purple again, and America radiating the same waves of tension and bitterness.

"Austria, say something," Hungary said elbowing Austria harshly. Austria glanced to Hungary and pushed up his glasses. "I have nothing to say." Hungary shot him a look and returned to the growing voices.

"Do you have proof for that America?" Russia asked.

"I don't need proof, it's obvious —!"

"America, just sit down already," England said.

"No, I will not sit down. I won't sit down until I prove Russia is the one behind this," he said fiercely.

Russia coughed harshly again, and the room winced. The cough seemed to shake through his brittle chest. "Does accusing me satisfy your superiority complex? If I had Germany it would have been on the news already."

"It wouldn't have been on the news, not everything we do is political!"

"Then why do you think I would take comrade Germany?" Russia asked back coldly.

"You're always saying: become one with mother Russia," America began in a terrible Russian accent, "so, I wouldn't be surprised if you actually did kidnap Germany! Right, guys?"

"You do say that a lot," Hungary said neutrally.

"I agree with Hungary," Japan intoned.

"It's a bloody catchphrase at this point," England agreed.

"I disagree with both England and America —"

"Shut the fuck up France."

"Actually, if I remember correctly, wasn't it France who caused World War Two and the separation of the German brothers? Maybe he's still angry?" China asked with a heavy tone. France shifted in his seat. Why did China have to use brothers, why couldn't he have just said Prussia like everyone else?

Something that China said must have snapped into place for America. "Oh yeah! Yeah, looking back at it, that was a really dick move to do, dude. But also, France, you were _suuuper_ pissed off at Germany after World War Two. It was you who wanted to split them up in the first place! Maybe, you never got over it. _Maybe_ _this was an inside job_ ," America said with distrust, his blue eyes darkening.

France gasped. "I don't have _Monsieur_ Germany! What use would I have attacking or having him?!" France cried not understanding why he was receiving all the blame.

"Maybe you raped Germany, who knows!" America said.

"Now listen here, France is a disgusting, repulsive twat, but he does not rape other nations," England said in a rare show of defense. France sent England a face of gratitude even if England was scowling heavily and refusing to look at him.

"Okay maybe not, but still! Maybe it was a duel job, you feel? France is close to Germany geographically. France is super bitter and stuff, Russia is bitter and stuff—like World War One, remember?—and the two talk. Russia offers him commie torture plans and _bombs!_ meanwhile, France gives him money. And now the time has come for them to fess up because they have totally been exposed!" America said proudly and surely.

"It is not the most outlandish theory," Austria said with his hands crossed over his lap.

"You can't be serious," Hungary said incredulously.

"What, you don't agree?" America challenged.

"No, I don't. What use do they have for keeping Germany prisoner? If you wanted to torture Germany, it wouldn't be through himself, it would be through Italy you idiots! Italy is the most important thing to Germany, hurt him and you leave him more hurt than any torture session." She saw them slowly understand, their stances one of defeat but not a willing one.

Italy had his head down, his bangs covering up his eyes and his little curl was so dropped down, it almost seemed like his natural hair now.

America seemed to immediately want to shout but let the words sink in. He closed his mouth and sat back down angrily. He crossed his arms over his chest and did not flinch under Russia's gaze or France's smug look.

"Russia did you kidnap Germany? France, are you the one that made Germany disappear? Is what America saying true?" Italy asked softly. Italy fiddled with the button on his jacket and pleaded with his eyes to deny him.

Russia's Amethyst eyes flickered to Italy's hunched form. "I do not have Germany little comrade," Russia swore before lightly coughing.

"Big Brother does not have _Monsieur_ Germany, Italy," France said with honesty.

"He's not lying, he doesn't have Germany," China advocated.

"How can we be sure of this?" England demanded.

"Yeah, Russia. How can we be sure?" America echoed.

Russia's aura was so thick, you could practically taste it. Although Russia's killing intent was high, his eyes looked lost like a child's pleading innocence to its angry father. And with that, Italy decided it was the truth.

Thankfully, France interjected before things became too heated. "America, stop trying put the blame on someone else to escape the fact that you manipulated the journal out of Italy's hand."

"I wouldn't be talking," America said. France stuck his tongue out and turned his head to the side not uttering a word. England told France to quit being a drama queen but France was beyond insulted now.

Russia skimmed the room and saw Canada hunched over in his chair wanting to say something badly. He smiled. "I think comrade Canada has something to say."

Murmurs rang throughout the room. America loosened his arms and looked around. He saw Canada to his left faintly, his figure like a thin ghost. He let out an excited gasp. "Bro! I didn't know you were here, why didn't you say something earlier!"

"I did," Canada said sighing.

"Everyone shut up, Canada's got something to say!" America shouted shushing the room.

"Thanks, Al," Canada said clearing his throat. "I wanted to say that I spoke with Germany before he disappeared last."

No one spoke waiting for Canada to continue in frightening attentiveness. Canada shifted in nervousness. "He asked me something I found weird...something I wouldn't expect him to ask _me_ of all people, but he did and..."

"Well, spit it out," England urged.

"He asked me, and I quote, 'Canada, do you ever wonder why we exist?'. I told him don't we all, but he didn't seem to like that answer. He then went on to tell me that we, personifications, are essentially useless. Government controls us and the people form us. When he put it that way, we are pretty unnecessary, eh?"

"But, but we aren't! We aren't useless!" America defended passionately.

Canada's glasses glimmered underneath the lighting. "But aren't we? What point do we have other than arguing? Take us away and the wars would have still happened. Famine would have still starved the children and the bombs would have still exploded. Only officials know of us, but to the others, we are just humans. Even this meeting, replace us with our presidents and it would be the same, eh?"

"Yeah, but..." America said trying to find a way to rebuttal that pessimistic statement. They were the people...they were...

"Since when do you and Germany talk?" Hungary asked curiously.

Canada shrugged. "He's not as angry as he seems. He is actually quite calm outside the meetings. We were discussing Rio plans and some things with trade."

Hungary hummed absorbing this information.

"So Germany thinks our existence is pointless. Lovely," England muttered.

America widened his eyes. He whipped his head quickly to Italy. "Hey, Italy dude. Tell everyone what you told me on the plane first."

"Tell them what?" Italy asked.

"You know, the thing going on between you and Germany, or the lack thereof."

Italy still didn't seem to recall what America was alluding to.

"Model."

Italy straightened. "Oh! I guess." He turned to face everyone's face. Worried, curious, hurt, angry, bored, apathetic, and expectant all shown through with the same faces of different wisdoms.

Italy laughed a little, his laughter echoing off the walls. "Apparently America thought me and Germany were dating. How silly was that, right?"

Everyone's jaws dropped. Even Austria raised his eyebrows. Japan's voice caught Italy's attention.

"You and Germany were never an...item?" he asked incredulously. He even heard Japan mutter oh shit but it must have been some weird Japanese...

Italy shook his head again confused as to why everyone was making a big deal. "Nope," Italy paused uneasily, "Was Germany...spreading lies?"

The room was immediately brought to life, the switch of panic flicked with a quick hand.

"Oh no! Nothing like that," Hungary said with rapid head nods.

"Of course not. Germany has done nothing of the sort," England reassured.

"That is preposterous," Austria said with a cool face.

"Germany wouldn't do that," Canada agreed.

"Comrade Germany is of the homo?" Russia asked innocently.

"Germany is not homo Russia," China snapped then continued. "But no, Germany hasn't been telling us any of that."

"Ohonhon Germany wishes —"

"Shut it!" England yelled covering his mouth.

Italy furrowed his brows. "Wait, he wishes? Why are you guys so shocked? You guys know something I don't, don't you!" Italy said with watery eyes.

"Of course not, of course not, Italy, France was just being a repulsive frog as always. His words are lesser anyhow so don't pay him any mind," England said smoothly.

"But, but, everyone reacted like America did when I told him that! Why does everyone think we are dating?" Italy asked desperately.

No one spoke. France's mouth was still clamped shut. He wouldn't have spoken if it were gone but at least he had an excuse to not look at Italy directly in the eye and tell him that...

"Canada?" Italy asked his chest heavy. "Did Germany say something about me?"

Canada bit his lip and felt his palms get clammy. The truth was, Germany had spoken of Italy. Numerous times. Mostly it being complaints, complaints with distant sighs of fondness and soft words of longing. It was saddening how much Germany liked Italy yet could never attain him through this thick barrier of whatever it was that separated the two. Canada had tried to ask Switzerland, but his resolved to stay permanently neutral was irritating.

"He did..."

Italy took a quick breath in and leaned in forward, and he could have sworn the others did as well.

"He asked me if I knew why you slept so much, and if your tabby was the reason his cat was so restless all the time..."

Italy's shoulders slumped. That was all? After all, they had been through together, his last words were about his laziness? It stung. It stung in ways Italy couldn't describe. And Italy wondered if he cried would his tears freeze and become crystals, a pretty show for all. Glistening, glimmering, and specular in a freezing summer.

"Oh. Anything else?" Italy asked lifting his head up hopeful again.

Canada felt his heart clenched seeing how desperate Italy was trying to keep his tears from falling or let his emotions get the better of him. And suddenly Canada wished Germany was there. He wished Germany was there so Germany could be the rock to Italy's waterfall of emotions. Because seeing Italy try to detain his emotions was heartbreaking. Italy wasn't supposed to be like this.

"No, I'm sorry," Canada said regretfully.

"Oh...Okay..."

"Actually, I have something to add as well," Austria said.

"Yeah? And what's that?" America asked.

"I do not know if this information holds any real value to any of you, but Germany called me a year ago in regards to my opinion of a good vacation place."

"A vacation?" France asked curiously, England's hand gone.

"Yes. He ringed me up one day and asked me if I knew of any places for cheap. I recommended the Bahamas but he didn't seem too keen on the idea of an island. I wonder why."

Italy and Japan sent each other a knowing look.

"Hey, that is pretty useful. Has anyone talked to the Bahamas lately?" America asked.

Everyone shook their heads negative. Most of them didn't even know how this country looked like.

America frowned slightly. "Well, this sucks. If Germany comes back with a tan, this will be the biggest waste of time ever, and the biggest fuck you ever."

The others mentally agreed.

"Anyone else got some dirt on Germany?" America asked boring his eyes into anyone he deemed to be lying.

"Japan?"

Japan jumped. "Germany hasn't spoken to me privately in thirty-seven years. I don't have anything useful to add America."

"It's fine. I think this problem is more than surface level. Just tell us what he told you back then and then we can decide if it's useful or not."

Hungary and Austria shifted slightly. If only they knew.

"Isn't this an invasion of privacy?" China asked in defense of Japan.

"Like you're one to talk about invasion of privacy," America said with an eye roll.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You monitor everyone like a hawk dude, internet, phone calls, movies, like dude! Chill!"

"How about comrade America shuts up now?" Russia said cheerfully.

China was grateful to Russia but America did not back down. "How about I make you shut up!" America said with a clenched fist. He despised the word comrade. Absolutely loathed it.

" _Mon Dieu,_ get a room already," France said rubbing his head. His head was starting to pound already, from the meeting or from his country, he did not know.

"What?!" America screeched. France winced at his poor ears.

"What's wrong France? Are you going to on strike again, coward?" England sneered as he saw France rubbing his temples and knowing exactly why.

France snapped his eyes open in rage to England's smug face awaiting for a challenge.

"I wouldn't be talking _black sheep,_ " France hissed just as harshly.

England flared and the others didn't know whether to break it up or continue on as they brawled. Italy was making patterns with his cold fingers on the table and didn't seem to be paying attention. Violence. It always came down to violence.

"Comrade America needs to control his woman, da?"

China covered his mouth, his long sleeves hiding the wide smile he had on his face. China laughed underneath, but Russia was not joking.

"Three words France. Plains of Abraham," England challenged not hearing Russia's comment.

France leaped out of his chair and knocked England to the ground. America didn't notice England's duel as he was chanting to himself violently: don't punch Russia, he's not communist anymore, don't punch Russia, he's not communist anymore, don't punch Russia, he's not communist anymore, don't punch Russia, he's not communist anymore—

"Wait, is England a girl?" Italy asked taking the meaning literally.

France smirked underneath England, his fist clenching onto England's once crisp dress shirt. "Don't be fooled Italy, black sheep over here has a bra in his bag."

England became so red France did not have enough time to react to the scorching pain he was feeling.

"It would make sense," China muttered.

"England is very flat for a girl," Russia said as if England was really a woman.

"He did wear heels on his boots once," Hungary said pensively.

"He likes to embroider," Austria reminded them all.

"He has small hips," China said as well.

"I AM NOT A BLOODY GIRL!" England shrieked.

America snapped out of his mantra and looked behind him to see the fighting men. "Wait what? England's not a girl!" America said confused.

"Thank you—!"

"America's lied to us once, why should we trust him on this? He said he didn't demand the book, yet it was clear he did. How do we not know that he knows that England is a girl?" France wheezed out.

Japan sighed. It would be right around now that Germany would have yelled and gotten them all back on track. But since he wasn't there, they were doomed to spiral into disorder and untainted chaos.

England banged France's head on the floor. "How about you tell them about what's happening at your place?"

America peered down to France unfazed. "What's up with you?"

"What does France have to do with anything?" Hungary asked.

"Yes, France. Why don't you enlighten the rest?" England said.

"You're the one who said to keep it within my own country, what are playing at —"

"Well now I'm saying to tell them, so speak," England demanded harshly.

"H-Hey, why don't we all calm — calm down," Italy said nervously.

"Veneziano, just sit down," Austria instructed with a condescending tone. Italy looked ashamed and sat back down. Austria had such a deep imprint in his mind, his belt and boxing of ears louder than any castigations he could scream.

"Hey, don't talk to him that way Austria," Hungary snapped.

America screamed and everyone turned their heads to see both he and Russia were on the floor as England and France were. France and England were yelling insults at each other in both English and French, neither one willing to admit they are wrong. Meanwhile, Russia was smiling above America all too pleased and America was livid. America punched Russia in the nose and Russia coughed out blood violently, the blood dripping onto America's white dress shirt in slow droplets from Russia's chapped, rosy lips.

America screamed in anger that his shirt was ruined.

"Well excuse me for trying to help Hungary," Austria said back once they had seen that nothing of importance was occurring.

Hungary pursed her lips annoyed. "That is not helping, Italy feels bad enough as it is. You know, you always treated Italy so badly! You never gave him a break."

"It was discipline! He turned out fine, didn't he? Imagine what it would have been like if he hadn't been under me," Austria argued back.

"A lot better," Hungary said.

"It's fine, I don't really mind —" Italy said trying to make them stop arguing.

"No! You should mind! Austria is not in control of you anymore, he should have no right to speak to you that way," Hungary shot down immediately.

"Well, maybe he should stand up to me. Grow up a bit," Austria said. Hungary parted her lips in surprise. She saw Italy's face flash hurt, and she became even angrier.

" _Austria! What is your problem?_ " She yelled in Hungarian knowing fully well that Austria could understand her.

" _What is your issue woman?"_ Austria said back in German.

The whole room was consumed in yelling. Austria and Hungary were shouting at each other with increasing vigor, Russia and America were both still fighting (but it looked more like a will of who will send the other to the E.R. the quickest from the amount of blood Russia was coughing and wheezing) and England and France were still fighting and hurling insults wondering which one will seep underneath the other's skin deep enough.

There was so much yelling. So much hatred and negatively that Italy turned to Japan for some comfort. He turned to his left and found the seat empty. His eyes swept the room and found him talking with China, the conversation not pleasant from the looks of it. Japan was rigid, his posture no different from normal but different somehow.

Italy could just tell.

Canada for once was grateful that he was invisible because he didn't have to be sucked into the hell hole that is the meeting right now.

The meeting was supposed to be calm...the meeting was supposed to be insightful and a way to discuss the things that the other countries have gathered over the weeks. It was supposed to be the meeting Italy was going to share what he had read and hopefully have some useful commentary on further entries in the book.

But no. Instead, here they are fighting over differences that ran thousands of years old and accusations that happened in the past for a chance to feel superior. No one was talking about the crisis in the land of Germany or how to fix the diminishing economic support the Germans had over the EU.

They were on the ground, yelling and screaming like stupid, little children.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What is this about war?" America asked overhearing a part of England and France's conversation.

The room died down, the murmurs fading away once again at the mention of war.

"War?" China asked looking away from the stone-faced Japan.

"Why don't you explain to them What your plan was?" England said in English again so everyone could understand.

France exhaled angrily. "I said to stop twisting my words! I never said I was going to go to war with anyone!" France's shout now seemed too loud.

"What are you, scared?" England taunted.

France let out a cry of frustration. " _Non_ , just listen to me you stubborn browed pig! If you don't take this seriously, there will be war whether you like it or not! People share ideas quickly, and once your stupid media catches onto it, it will be too late to extinguish the flame."

England looked away. He will not have blood sullied on his hands, on his name.

"No such thing will happen. If you keep it under control this won't happen, but I'm starting to think that you want this to happen."

France gaped truly shocked. "I—I. I would never! I'm broke, I can't afford to go to war!" France cried.

"Wait, so France, you want to wage a war because that's like a total no no dude," America said shoving off Russia easily to jump up from the floor. Russia crumbled on the floor in the mixed pool of red and coughed, his vision getting blurry and his ribs aching. It felt as if someone was stabbing shards of glass into his lungs and every movement was a push further into his frail ribs.

China rushed over to help him asking him if he was okay and where it hurt. Russia kept on saying everywhere, everywhere hurts and make it better, make it better.

"Oh, my go — I don't want to wage a war!" France screamed frustrated.

"Good because you will _not_ go to war," America said forcefully.

And for some reason, that made France mad. America wasn't even part of Europe, he has never wanted to help Europe in the past. World War One, World War Two, they had pleaded for his help but he had been too busy laughing with his Hollywood babes while they sewed together missing body parts and poked at their ribs through their torn uniforms. He had no right to tell him if he should go to war or not, he had no —

"And what if I do?" France challenged.

"Good one France!" America laughed and waved his hand.

"Listen to America France, don't make this harder than it should be," England said from above, his eyes dangerous.

"Call me dumb, but what is it that we are threatening France's life with?" Hungary asked.

"I'll tell you what it is," England said before France could answer, "France over here has a little rebellion going on his country. A rebellion that is taking stances against his own government. They are calling for major changes not only for the country but for the ECSC and EEC as well. Talk about possible succession and all that because of Germany's economy that seems to be going down the shithole lately. Take that and add existing tensions in Alsace-Moselle, you have both French and Germanic citizens butting heads and throwing bloody paddies. The Germans getting moodier and testier than before — not paying taxes and generally feeling like a hormonal teenage girl, and the snail-lickers getting angry for the sake of it."

France was actually impressed. He didn't think England was up to date on the issues of his countries to such extent.

"Succession? Oh no, oh no. France keep it in your country!" Hungary warned in fear of it spreading through Europe. It was always so easy to spark a war with humans, it only took a shove to get people riled up.

"Maybe we should take a break..." Canada said quietly.

No one heard his soft words. "It would be wise for France to not screw up," Austria said tightly. He was already stingy as it was.

"No one asked for your opinion you broke tart," Hungary said with anger still in her veins.

"Excuse me?" Austria said with clenched teeth.

"You are excused, don't let the door hit ya," Hungary bit back, the other nations scooting away from the couple. Their chairs scraped as they moved to one side of the room.

"Shouldn't we, like, stop them from killing each other?" America asked.

England waved a hand. "They will be fine."

"Okay, I guess we can just have the rest of the meeting over here so they can resolve their...sexual tension or whatever," America said bored. He then brightened up. "Alright! Anyone have any ideas as to what to do next!"

"How about methods to fix Germany's economy," China said.

"The Germans need _l'amour,_ " France said with a smile.

"That is your answer for everything, frog! We need actual answers," England said crossly.

"Why is the economy so bad in Germany right now?" Russia asked wincing.

They looked to France. He sighed feeling the age he actually was.

"We have to remember that you can't just unify a country overnight. Prussia — Eastern Germany — is still severely poor and behind because of communism. They have to be caught up from the forty-something years they basically missed, and in a sense, they are 'dragging' down the country. There is nothing Khol wants more than to integrate the eastern Germans back, so that will always be one of his main priorities...Now as for the country as a whole, my best guess is that they feel something weird within their own borders, the presence of Germany in a way gone. They are becoming anxious and fearful that something isn't right. Many are taking their stocks out, getting suspicious of the government itself, and looking to blame another country. But they cannot act upon the want for war, _non?_ Imagine how bad that would look for them, _another_ war started by Germans. They want to fight something they do not know what for or why, and in turn, simply cannot afford to fight."

It hasn't stopped humans before, China wanted to say but didn't.

"Hey, China. Has a personification ever abandoned a country without the people's consent? Like going rogue in a way?" America asked.

China thought about it. He scavenged his brain and thought back to all of the years he's been alive. He couldn't recall a time when a fellow being has ever acted negatively to its people on purpose. It was true that they had separate thoughts of their own not influenced by the time, but it was still within a set ideology. Their actions, for the most part, were for what they believed was for the good of the nation. Ethics, well, that was debatable.

But to purposely cause harm to its own people? No nation wanted that. It would, in turn, cause them suffering. A ruler, a king, well that was different. That human didn't feel the shouts, the impalements, the cries of agony, the pain of suffering, the beheadings, the curses, the despair, the moans of the dead—they didn't feel it resonate through their lungs and through their privileged bones. They felt them, but them did not feel they.

Germany, Italy, America, Indonesia, Australia, Cuba, Vietnam — throw a dart at any country on the map and they will all be the same. Germany (Ludwig), America (Alfred), Italy Veneziano (Feliciano), it didn't matter. They were the embodiments of culture, the only things humans can carry on with them to the grave and call it immortality. To remove one of them, would be in a sense, losing a sense of identity, China realized.

And America had realized it too. He realized that by Germany not being there within his country doing German things among the populace of a shared ideology, the people were losing the sense of what they were. They felt lost, a hole they didn't know needed to be filled.

And Prussia still exists, meaning that a large enough group still identify as Prussian. What of them?

"I don't think so," China said.

"Just like Germany to do something daring," Russia muttered.

"So what does this mean?" Italy asked startling the group. They almost forgot he was there from his lack of participation or general annoyances.

"It means, Italy, that if we don't find Germany soon, the Germans are gonna get real broody and angsty, not knowing what they stand for and why they stand for it. I'm talking about real anarchy dude, not the whatever England was spouting out a couple years ago," America said seriously.

Everyone's face turned grave. They still heard Austria and Hungary arguing with each other.

"Prussia's not coming is he," Italy said finally looking down at the table.

"You never know Italy, he might just be running late —" America said trying to not make Italy feel worse. It didn't work.

"He's not coming. You just said that to make me feel better," Italy said bitterly, finally showing the cold emotion that had been stirring within him since the beginning of this meeting.

"Hey, that's not true. I really thought Prussia was gonna make it, he will be here any second, I swear —"

"America, how dumb do you think I am? How dumb do you all think I am? I know you lied to me and that he's not coming," Italy said shutting his eyes and wishing he was back home with Romano and inhaling the scent of his brother's smell of gardening and spices. He wanted it so badly and Italy's treacherous mind brought back the memories of Germany crying by the gray wall among others swearing he could hear a sweet voice on the other side and not blood-curdling screams of people painting the wall red as they were shot down.

It made him feel so, so, so much worse but it did not stop his wanting.

"Italy," America began feeling awful.

America flickered his gaze to the journal and wondered when it had become larger than life. Under the lights, crooked in the center of the large table meant for many, it looked like a normal book. Useless, pointless if you could not read, and its words a blessing or curse for those who can read it.

Austria and Hungary continued to argue until they were both standing up and screaming at each other. Their arguing had been turbulent background noise, a buzzing sound in the back of the dull room.

"Shut up Austria! Just shut up! You don't know what you're talking about!" Hungary said breathing heavily.

"Do I not? Do you really believe in your heart that I do not know what I am talking about?" Austria said looking uncharacteristically intimidating.

"You don't know anything, you've always been like this — unwilling to listen to anyone that doesn't follow your opinion!" Hungary said while shaking her head, her curls flying behind her back.

"Were you there personally Hungary to see him bleeding and wanting death? Broken bones, broken will —were you there to witness his last breath, his heart failing more than one occasion to the point it was normal —"

The others weren't sure who they were talking about anymore.

"I didn't need to be there to know what happened, do you think I didn't know what happened? Are you forgetting that I was just as involved as you were —"

The door slammed open, the sound stopping Hungary and Austria from arguing. The sound echoed throughout the room, and both Hungary and Austria opened their mouths in shock. The open door brought in a draft of cold air despite the heater being on full blast. The cold draft slithered around the round, making the chilling anxiety of Italy have a wonderful companion.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to actually show up.

"What's up brohas!" Prussia said cheerfully walking into the silent room not questioning why everyone's eyes were following his broad figure so attentively. He saw that Austria and Hungary looked completely pale and thunderstruck, Hungary's eyes feeling betrayed. Hungary swallowed and met Austria eyes in want to not meet Prussia's.

They were closest to the entrance, the others on the far side of the room, far away from Hungary and Austria. He saw his little brother's journal at the center of the table and not in one of the country's tight little hands. He smiled and wondered why everyone was being so quiet. He noted with delight that Russia looked quite beat up and in turn, America looked like he had seen better days. France and England were not surprisingly scuffled up if the bruise on France's cheek counted for anything.

Prussia scratched his head. "This is meeting, right? This isn't some kind gang bang I've walked into?"

Prussia had snow on his scarf, Italy noticed. He had small white flakes on his white scarf, white hair, and had black gloves on. His cheeks were tinted red and his nose was flushed a bit as well.

Italy looked out the large window and in fascination, saw that it was snowing violently outside, the blobs of people walking unfazed by the accumulating white. Snowing in July... snowing in July...

He didn't dwell on it long as he got up and barreled to Prussia elated.

"Prussia! You made it, you made it! I thought you weren't coming," Italy greeted hugging Prussia tight, his warm cheek feeling the cold material of his black coat. Italy felt himself be patted and looked up to see Prussia's smiling face.

"Yep, I made it. It was a bitch to get here, I had to force the pussy pilot to keep on flying because of the 'dangerous snow storms' that were on the way apparently. But this is Moscow—when the hell is there not a dangerous snowstorm," Prussia said laughing.

"Wow," Italy said feeling his mood lift. To go through the trouble for a meeting was incredible to him. He would have been so scared if he were on a plane and then told that there was a snow storm! He guessed he owed America an apology.

But America didn't seem too down on it. If anything he looked just as surprised as Italy. Italy wondered why that was.

"Prussia...why are you here?" Hungary asked after getting over the fact that yes, Prussia is indeed attending this meeting as Germany's replacement officially.

"Because it's a G8 meeting," Prussia answered.

"But you've never attended any other meetings."

"Well, now I am. Do you have a problem with it or something?" It wasn't said with attitude, it was more of a question of curiosity.

"No, but it's so unlike you Prussia. To chose now of all times."

"And why is right now a bad time?"

"Prussia, you know why right now is a bad time," Hungary said in a darker tone.

"Is it just me or does Hungary seem really pissed today?" America whispered to England.

"Hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned, America," was all England said back.

"But it's like she has dirt on everyone. I told ya she was suspicious..."

"Nope, I actually don't Hungary! Want to tell everyone what's on your mind so we can all understand?" Prussia said jovially, daring her to reveal the secret to Italy.

Hungary didn't respond and Italy became confused. "What's so bad about Prussia coming, Hungary?"

Hungary couldn't do it. Answer to that face that she knew could break so easily. She couldn't blame Italy, for wanting to know what everyone else wanted to know, but she can't divulge him. She can't divulge him many things—the things she knows having to be taken to her grave. (If she is ever lucky to have such a day).

"Nothing. Prussia is just really annoying," Hungary said in hopes that Italy wouldn't question it further.

And Italy didn't.

The air around Austria, Hungary, and Prussia became thick to everyone except Italy. Italy was just happy Prussia was there.

"So, what did I miss?" Prussia asked sitting down. Italy realized for the first time that this wasn't just Prussia arriving at a meeting late, it was his first meeting ever. The agreements, the talks, the signatures of back then—they were all made to make sure this moment would never happen. Prussia wasn't supposed to be sitting next to them as equals, yet here he was.

The other nations decided that hiding in a corner wasn't a good idea anyway and shuffled back.

"Birdie! Where's your thousand pounds of syrup and mountain hat?"

Canada smiled and greeted Prussia. "Hey, Gilbert. Also, fuck you."

Prussia laughed, and America watched this exchanged not sure how to feel.

"But for real, what the hell did I miss," Prussia said.

"Oh you know, the same old same old. France is going to start a war, England threw a bitch fit about it, we don't know if England's a boy or not so we'll get back to you on that one, Russia was a being a commun — I mean, a little piece of shit as always, and I think Austria and Hungary were giving each other bedroom eyes," America summarized horribly.

"For the love of. That is not how you use bedroom eyes America," England said with exasperation.

"You don't know thaaat," America whined.

"France is going to start what now?" Prussia asked.

"Stop saying lies! I am not going to start a war!" France said fed up with everyone.

"Explain," Prussia demanded.

Being tired of explaining this for the third time France told him what he had said to the others before more curtly. France was more nervous to tell Prussia, though—his curtness a way to hide his nerves. If it had been Germany, that would have been a different story.

Germany did not punch people in the middle of things he did not like to hear or growl like a feral cat when you spoke wrongly. Germany's anger was more subdued, only ever coming out in quick bursts, by the time you realized he was pissed it being too late.

But Prussia was passionate and wild...and with a real government to support him, it was no shock to the others as to why France sounded more nervous. Friends, France decided, were not for the gray table.

"That doesn't sound like your fault, though. Do you want to succeed?" Prussia asked.

"Of course not, but these _idiots_ keep trying to make it seem like I want this to happen. I was simply warning them to be careful, to not let this become out of hand in their own countries," France said glad that Prussia saw things his way.

"Then I guess that's all that matters."

"Didn't you have leads, America?" France asked remembering that he had been cut off.

"Oh yeah! I did you guys. This past week, Italy and I have been trying to figure out what to do with the Schwartz family, right?"

"America, they don't know anything but what from happened last time we met. You're going to have to explain from the beginning," England reminded.

"Oh, that's right. I think Italy can say it best then," America said turning the spotlight to Italy.

"I think Prussia knows more, he is the one to tell me to go to America," Italy said airily.

"Naw, I think they want to hear it from you Italy," Prussia said.

"Oh okay," Italy began, "I've read seven entries already, two with America. One day reading the entries gave me the idea to go to Germany's house personally to get clues, and Prussia let me in. I looked through and found a contact book. One of the names was in English and I don't know, just stood out. I called the number and the person was really mean! His name was Gernot and told me to find this guy Holger Amster. I looked through phone books, Germany's phone books, but couldn't find anything more recent than in the sixties!"

"So, I asked Prussia what I should do, because Prussia always seems to know what to do, and he told me to go ask America. But I was kinda scared, I didn't want to ask him because he was kinda scary in the last meeting, but America wasn't that bad after all! He's actually nice, and he helped me find out that F.B.I. isn't the police apparently and that the FBI doesn't break into your house, and —"

"Okay, dude I can take it from here," America said in case Italy messed up any of the important information they had discovered recently.

"So me and Italy, mainly me, looked up who this Holger dude was. Apparently, in the states, he's a fictional character in a movie written by some German guy in the sixties in honor of his best friend who served in The War. I looked deeper into this director guy and found that he had traces back to the Schwartz family, the guy's best friend _and_ mean guy Italy talked to over the phone with. Yep, yep. And Italy already knew her making things even better!"

Italy wondered how America knew that Italy had seen her before. Was he that obvious or was America that observation?

"So apparently according to her, she is related to the Schwartz family through her sister, who is married to the guy Italy talked with. Holger Amster was her cousin in law, Gernot's side of the family to simply things. He, Holger has this crazy sister named Cornelia, and after this meeting, me and Italy were going to go talk to her. There is some obvious beef between this Schwartz family as they all hate Germany. We also find out that she's providing money to someone in psychiatric care, and this person has been there for a while from the looks of it."

"She sounded really freaked out when calling this person, really scared about the government coming after her even though they are on her tail as we speak. She mentioned Germany twice in fear. She used him as a reference point to something really tragic—as if he was a victim or something. We'll get back to ya on that, we don't really know much either," America stopped talking factually and turned to Italy.

"By the way, how did you know the chick?"

"I met her on the airplane back to home. We chatted," Italy said.

"What's this girl's name? I can probably find her," Prussia said not much afterward.

"Which ones?" America asked.

"The one with the F.B.I. or whatever."

"Elliot Juliana Lechmann. Not married and her sister is Eva Schwartz. Eva is married to Gernot Schwartz."

"Interesting," Prussia said.

"Do you know any of them?" France asked.

"Nope," Prussia said popping the p.

"Weren't you talking to that one girl named Rose —" Canada began casually from a conversion he had once with Prussia.

Prussia sent Canada such a dark glare that Canada sunk down in his seat behind Kumajirou to avoid the threatening waves from Prussia's demonic eyes. "Maple..."

"Who?" England asked curiously.

"Just some chick I met at the bar. No one important."

"Was she hot?" America asked.

"She's dead."

"Yeah, but was she bangin' or—"

"America, take the bloody hint," England said in irritation. America pouted.

Rose... Rose...Rose...the name was on the tip of Italy's tongue. He was trying to recall where he had heard such a name recently...why was this brain so bad at remembering important things?

Prussia watched Italy furrow his brows and he cursed in his head. He saw Canada still hiding behind his bear and sighed internally. What was said was said, it was up to Italy to decide what to do with that information. Italy, Prussia knew, was not dumb. He could piece things together quickly and ideas that seem absurd are sometimes the only that work.

"Are we forgetting that Germany's economy is a wreck?" China asked forcefully trying to get to the point he was there for.

"Dude, chill with the economy already! There is some serious angst going on here," America said.

China hit his head on the table. "I 'ive 'p," China mumbled face down.

"Oh yes, how are we going to fix that?" England asked wishing he had a painkiller for his head. Another reason Germany was missed. He had plenty to spare.

Prussia surprisingly didn't seem at all worried. He waved off the worry with his hand and a cocky smirk. "Don't worry about that, it's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal!" Hungary said unbelievingly. "How is this not a big deal? People are losing jobs, Prussia!"

Prussia placed his palm on his cheek. "I know."

No one really knew how to react. One thought was shared by all of them.

 _What the fuck is going on?_

"Okay, maybe _you_ don't care, but the rest of us do," England bit out.

"Don't worry so much England, it will be fine! Italy's gonna find my lil bro before the world explodes, right?" Prussia said with such faith that Italy felt more worry than happiness.

"R-Right," Italy said feeling sick. It was no longer him trying to find Germany because he wants to and misses him, it's quickly morphing into a necessity. The fate of Europe, it seemed, was tipping on its fragile axis all too quickly on a weak base. Italy...this was his chance to prove he was useful...he could prove he wasn't as weak as he looked...

England looked unimpressed. Italy would have been too if he were looking at himself.

"That's fine and dandy, but we need things that will work with certainty —"

"Are you doubting Italy's skills? Cuz I don't. You shouldn't either, England," Prussia said patting Italy's back almost making him stumble over.

England did not like the game Prussia was playing at. He was trying to guilt trip him. By making him openly admit he had no faith in Italy, he would immediately be labeled as the bad guy in a sense. It wouldn't be part of their commutative support for the little guy, it would be _mean_. It would go against Prussia (Germany he supposed) directly and that's exactly what they're trying to "save." But England had an inkling suspension that no one needed saving.

Oh no, someone shun him for his straying thoughts! Someone shush him for believing that Prussia was doing this on purpose!

England felt as though all the nations felt it. The air of superficiality around the show Prussia is displaying. Something didn't taste right, something wasn't adding up. But just what it was, is something England cannot decipher by action alone.

"Hungary, you look like you want to say something," Prussia said.

Hungary gritted her teeth. She smiled. "I don't actually, but thanks for asking."

"Naw, you looked like you _really_ wanted to say something," Prussia insisted.

"And I said I don't," Hungary said with a warning.

"How about reading an entry?" America said eager to clear the dense atmosphere.

"You guys haven't read an entry yet?" Prussia asked surprised.

America moved to retrieve the book. "We've been busy, dude." America stood on one end of the table. "Alright, who wants to read? Italy did it last time, and I've already read some with Italy, so who wants to read."

"I want to read, pass it to me America," Hungary said excitedly.

"How about someone _other_ than Hungary—someone not as unawesome as that she-man," Prussia said immediately after.

"What? What's wrong with me reading?" Hungary asked the hostility around her not even surprising anymore.

"Someone else should do it," Prussia said childishly.

"But you're not even giving any reasons —"

"I don't like your voice. There, there's your reason."

"Ugh fine, I don't even know why I bother," Hungary said.

America didn't bat an eye at the exchange. "Anyone else?"

"I will," Austria volunteered.

"How about nooooo," Prussia denied.

"What's your deal with Austria?" Hungary asked.

"I don't want him to read. He's not awesome enough."

" _Okay,"_ Hungary began, "then who is awesome enough to read?"

"Hmmm, Japan should!"

America turned to Japan and titled his head to the right. He asked the silent question through the slight lift of his brow.

" _Ano,_ I am not very good at reading German, I do not think this is a good idea," Japan fretted.

"Bullshit, you'll be just fine! Besides, West likes ya," Prussia said.

But we were once enemies, Japan wanted to say but didn't. Prussia worded that phrase oddly — as if Hungary or Austria wasn't liked by Germany, Japan thought as well once he sees that his face of uncomfortableness wasn't going to make Prussia feel anything. He didn't want to read but America's heavy footsteps were already coming nearer towards him.

He felt the weight enter his palms uninvited. "I can't read German..." Japan tried again.

"Meh, you can read Dutch right? It's like the same thing," America said.

"No, it's really not," England said sighing.

"Prussia, why don't you just read it?" Russia asked tired of the hopping of names.

Prussia looked scandalized. " _M_ e _?_ "

"Da."

Prussia pretended to think. "Oh, let me think about it. Nope. Besides, who brought this again~?"

"You did," Russia said with a hoarse voice. He refused to go to the hospital, he was not weak.

Prussia always thought he would feel satisfaction flow his veins hotly at the sight of Russia destroyed and so little, but Russia was just as tall and just as small as he has always been. It's now, with red trails on his white scarf, that Prussia realizes that Russia will never be great. His lands unwanted, his temper feared, his people ugly, the men divided, and with the history of despair to haunt them, it came to no surprise to any that Prussia felt foolishly empathetic to Russia. They were the same age yet Russia seemed to always be two centuries younger, three centuries crueler.

He was snapped out of his daze when Canada spoke next to him.

"I'll read..." Canada offered knowing German fluently and being the only one other than Japan on Prussia's good side.

"Oh hey, Birdie wants to do it, America!"

America turned around, his back now facing Japan, and Japan being more relieved than he would've thought, and handed the entry to Canada. He turned to the latest entry and whispered something to Canada's ear. Canada shot America a dirty look and America sat back in his seat beside England.

Canada's voice echoed clearly through the warm room, the snow outside a fantasia.

 _ **09\. November 1936**_

 **"** _ **When I was a child, I used to play with a Jewish boy. I didn't know he was Jewish. He seemed to like me regardless. He was older than me—I was one year 'younger' when he was eight.**_

 _ **He was the son of a banker Brother trusted very much, and the family lived far from us. We visited their estate only a few times, and if not for their odd candles and the Torah, I would have assumed them to be as every other person in the land. Brother talked with this man a lot, and the man brought his son a lot, and I suppose that is the closest thing I've had to a friend before."**_

The word Italy was scratched out sloppily.

 **"** _ **We didn't speak much. He deemed me too small to understand. He was allergic to dogs and could not be around Blackie for very long without getting a swollen face like a plump cherry. I felt bad for him, but mostly I felt bad for myself. We had nothing to talk about. But we found 'friendship' through action, taunting and dares—those adventures equalling something in our minds.**_

 _ **We would go out, do reckless things for the sake of being reckless, and I would feel guilty for disobeying Brother, and yet on the other hand, glad I was gaining the approval of someone my own age. Every time they would leave I would ask Brother when they were coming back and Brother just said he was glad I was making friends.**_

 _ **But we weren't. One day he said that he was moving away. I didn't know where to, and I asked him where he was going more out of curiosity than something of sadness, and he said he didn't know either. It was quiet I remember, the view of grass offaly lonely even if we were right beside each other. He told me that he hated me. He hated me with all the anger a child could hold and kicked me in the shin with all his might.**_

 _ **I was more surprised than hurt when he kicked me, and when I got back up he had a look of pure terror of what he had just done. His lips quivered, his hands shook not sure of themselves, and his shadow was large over me.**_

 _ **I asked him why. I didn't hate him.**_

 _ **I don't remember why he hated me specifically, I just know that his reasons were hurtful. I couldn't come up with reasons to hate him so I attacked him for something he could not control. I felt a hatred quickly consume me, my anger not towards his religion, but for what he had said to me. And maybe I proved to be everything he said I was, proving by denying and denying by proving. But I said it. In the end, he was blue, and I was bruised, and we were both confused as to what had really happened. He walked away saying he hopes that I go drown, and I thought that was stupid since I knew how to swim and he didn't.**_

 _ **They left and when I finally decided to tell Brother many weeks after, I decided with absolute certainty that Jews were stupid and mean. Spain didn't like them, England didn't like them, France didn't like them, Austria didn't like them, Russia didn't like them—why should I? And I received such a harsh boxing from Brother that day that I can't quite remember what he said, but how he said it. I wasn't allowed to go out riding and I was forced to work on my studies...**_

 _ **I wish now that I had recorded more of my childhood because my memory is getting hazy. I don't want to forget...I don't want to forget...**_

 _ **Adolf is like that boy. I mentioned Adolf in my last entry—"**_

Canada stopped reading when the book was torn out of his hands. "What are you —"

"How about we take a break!" America said. America glanced at Italy and immediately looked away. Although America did not meet Italy's gaze, he felt the stare through his jacket, through his stained dress shirt, and through his skin.

"America?" Canada voiced confused.

"I would be careful with that," Prussia warned darkly. America placed it down quickly.

"We've been here for an hour, waaay too long. How about we take a break? I'm starving!" America continued with a forcing smile.

"At least finish the entry," Hungary said.

"I agree with Hungary," Japan said.

"That was rude, da?" Russia said smiling.

"Let him continue —" China was cut off as America sighed dramatically, his battle lost. "Fine!" America said it, his words were heard by others, yet his words were hollow in his own ears.

Canada took the book again and grabbed the cold material skeptically. "Okay..."

"— _**and that one day I will be like him as well.**_

 _ **Adolf likes his privacy. He keeps a smile when I shake his hand painted with blood and speaks in generalities. He's reckless and hard-headed and troubl. His ideas are marvelous! He speaks of great things, I know he will do great things.**_

 _ **He revoked the citizenship of the Jewish population...I feel as though this is for the best in a way. The Jews, Adolf says to me, will be taken care of accordingly. I do not know where or how he plans to correct them but he hasn't failed me so far.**_

 _ **Silly Brother. He still doesn't believe Adolf is good for me. Can't he see the great things he's doing? Not everything he does is agreeable of course, but I have a duty to do.**_

 _ **There is talk of war on the horizon, and I absolutely loathe the. War? I am more than ready for war. I have faith that we will win.**_

 _ **I'll admit, the music Adolf allows is dull. In a way, I am jealous of America in that sense. In poverty, but free to dance to a beat unrestrained.**_

 _ **I had a dream last night. Maybe it was a warning, maybe it was a fortune. Searching for a summer I could not recall, I had a vivid image of a figure clutching onto his neck as he screamed with no voice, his soft neck bandaged. Orthodox, correct, I would not expect anything less. A feeling of hope, a feeling of terror, I for a moment had replaced it with an old fear of mine. Lovely the night was, but isn't the night always clear under the sky? Obtuse it is, blurry it will always be. No, by the time I awoke sweating, I realized it was something else. Evanescent her body was, my psyche will not let me forget..."**_

"Ohonhon," France laughed perversely. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and although England hit him, the smack lightened the mood.

"Has Germany finally gone barmy?" England asked.

Canada blushed. Germany was a virgin right? Canada looked to Prussia and he seemed to be highly interested in clicking his pen as many times he could, the _click, click, click_ gaining speed and then pausing as if the tune was not right.

"To be fair, this whole thing is kinda weird. Is Germany usually this sporadic?" Canada asked Italy.

"America would know _all_ about it," Italy sang.

All eyes directed to America. "Ha...Hahahahah," America laughed nervously. "Whatcha talkin' 'bout little dude?"

"America knows! He knows _everything_ and reads _a lot_ of things, he's very _knowledgeable_."

"R-Riiiight. _With you_ of course," America said.

" _Of course,"_ Italy said.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Aren't you going to answer?" Italy asked tilting his head. He had his eyes shut.

"No," said America. "He's not always like this but you know. Nazi and stuff."

"I'm just gonna keep reading..." Canada said in confusion to Italy's tight smile. France whispered something to England and England crossed his arms frowning.

 **"** _ **After fetching Adolf's medications, he seemed extremely irritable. He went off on a twenty-minute rant about the French, Russians, and who knows what else. The topic eventually came back to homosexuality as he seemed to like my ears rather than my mouth. He is adamant on gays being condemned to complete suffering and I politely disagreed. I know that Himmler does not swing the 'right' way, as do many others.**_

 _ **He was beyond scandalized and outraged. I suppose he had a right to, it wasn't 'right', but I wonder what his customers from Vienna would say. He screamed, and I argued. This was the first time our opinions clashed so violently. It blew out of proportion and eventually I was branded a traitor and Anti-Christ.**_

 _ **That was a month ago. Hitler in a much better mood these days. Medications do that to people, make them irritable. I fully expected for things to return to normal. I would sit at my desk and work, but he kept demanding where my wife was. Wife? A human wife? I told him we don't have wives, we just**_ **don't.** _ **He growled, his heavy boots walking away, and I felt annoyed.**_

 _ **Day. After. Day.**_

 **'** _ **Where's your woman?'**_

 _ **'Have a wife yet?'**_

 _ **'Ludwig, strip...No breasts...but I see a pussy right in front of me.'**_

 _ **'Give this message to Mrs. Beilschmidt.**_ **Yes,** _ **there is one Ludwig, I said so.'**_

 _ **And variations of that sentence with more threats and slurs. Dinner parties, concerts, outings, phone calls at eleven at night—it's driving me mad! I am not homosexual (I'm really NOT) I just admire. Admiration is natural, right? I look at a man and sometimes think: he is a good looking man. From an analytical perspective. A consensus can be drawn, a study can prove it (golden ratios and all that) and is it only then, under the name of science, will it be considered genius? Woman, man, it is all the same...I know Adolf knows this, but I am Germany and he is the Führer...**_

 _ **Brother must have noticed my mood because he invited (forced) me to go out for drinks. This was nothing new, I just wish Brother would not compete with me every time we go out...I always win...But that victory came with a price this time around. I did not know alcohol poisoning was possible for nations.**_

 _ **But it is.**_

 _ **I woke up feeling horrible and sluggish, the unfamiliar room too bright and Brother's body next to mine breathing deeply and rhythmically. I threw up (multiple times) and the clothes on the floor had been picked up by the time I exited the bathroom.**_

 _ **Brother is a neat freak like that. He was gone and I spent most of my morning moaning and cursing the light in the bathroom. It was a hotel I realized once I was conscious and well, and I also realized that Brother had left without saying goodbye. I assumed it was an emergency call. Either way, lesson learned.**_

 _ **...But it had been fun. And if I'm honest, it probably won't be the last time."**_

"End of entry," Canada said. "Hey America, Japan could have read this. It wasn't even in German."

America whipped his head surprised. "It wasn't?"

Canada shook his head. "Nope. It was in the Universal Language..."

"Let me see." And America saw.

"The others aren't like that. Flip to the next one and see if that one is in the U.L. Maybe I'm going crazy or something," America said. And Canada saw that it was in German again, the words longer and the sentences shorter.

"It's not. This is weird..." Canada flipped back and forth, back and forth. He swept over the pages as if the words already read aloud would decipher the meaning they didn't know to find. Canada furrowed his brows. Canada turned his head. "Hey, does anyone have a pen on them?"

"I do," France said next to him. France handed him a ballpoint pen and Canada thanked him quietly and quickly. "Prussia, you don't mind that I write in this right?"

"Depends on what," Prussia said interested.

"I think I got something but I might just be going crazy...I won't write words in it, I promise."

Prussia shrugged. "As long as you don't fuck it up, sure."

Canada beamed and uncapped the shining pen, of course, way too heavy and expensive for a casual meeting, and motioned the nations to huddle closer so they could the page clearly.

He pointed to a paragraph with the black tip of his pen and tapped on the first letter of the sentence. "England, you mentioned that Germany sounded a little off right? When describing the dream?"

England said yes, he indeed did say that. Canada continued. "I don't think that was an accident. Look," he circled the first letter of the sentence which was I. "I had a dream last night. If I circle the beginning letter of the sentence, I get I. If I circle the next letter of this pattern, I get m. Maybe it was a warning, maybe it was a fortune. Do you see it?"

"It spells I'm," China spoke, "But it could be a coincidence."

"I don't think so. If I follow the same pattern," Canada's pen made light scratching noises as it hit the paper, more letters circled, "We get S, O, A, L, O, N, E."

"I'm so alone..." Italy breathed.

Canada nodded and set the pen down, sliding the book forward for the rest to see. France picked it up first and passed it England. The book made its way around the table, murmurings passing through the table. Eventually, Italy held the journal in his cold hands. He saw the circles and pressed the journal close to his chest. It was meant for him, Italy thought. It was a clear cry for help—there would be no other reason for Germany to write in the universal language! And Italy's question was answered. Germany did realize (when—Italy does not know) that his thoughts were not his own.

They are never his own.

He took it away from his chest and handed it back to the last person on the table, the most anticipated reactant.

Prussia held the book in front of him as everyone else had, the sun shining dully, shyly, barely on Prussia's neck through the large window. "Congrats Birdie. Even I didn't see this." He smiled proudly at Canada.

Canada hesitated to answer for a moment, the tone of failure on Prussia's tongue making him feel guilty. He had been certain that he was going to make a fool out of himself when he spoke—that he was just making assumptions and being too conclusive too quick, but the rest accepted the facts rather easily. Say it with words, show something visually that mimics what you are trying to prove, and how could anyone deny your statement other than fact.

"Oh, West," Prussia said sighing and setting the book down.

"Did you know about this?" Hungary asked quietly.

"About him being lonely or that he spelled it out?" Prussia said.

"About being lonely..."

Prussia shifted in his seat, the sunshine behind hitting the table for a second only to go away once again when his blue shoulder blocked it. "Well I mean, I always thought that he talked with his co-workers and stuff. He spent most of his time in the office, I assumed that he would have made maybe not a friend, but at least an acquaintance."

"He never mentioned anyone, and I was worried for him, so I guess I never really knew what he did outside of the house. I was busy...he was busy..."

If it had been a human running the meeting, Prussia would have been stared down with disappointment in lethal waves. But it wasn't. And what Prussia did for his brother was more than a lot of them could say.

"But he's not going to be lonely soon," Italy said optimistically.

If anything, Italy's words made Prussia look away and become more guarded. His facial expression unconsciously steeled and he leaned forward more. "No. I guess he won't."

Knocks on the double doors broke through their mixed air. Russia looked confused and the door opened with a tall brown haired Russian. The man looked surprised.

" _Who are you? This meeting is still in session,"_ Russia said in his native language.

" _Sir, there is another group waiting to use this room. This meeting was scheduled from nine to noon."_

Russia flicked his watch and was surprised to see the watch hand point to twelve. The minute hand moved.

" _We'll be out shortly."_

The man nodded and closed the door, the silence enveloping them again.

"What was that about?" America asked taking a drink from the water provided.

"I only scheduled this room for three hours. I didn't think we would make it through the whole time."

"Is it already noon?" England asked surprised, flicking to his watch as well.

"Da. There is another group waiting. Continue this tomorrow at the same time?" Russia stood up shuffled his papers pleased.

The others stood up as well, the spell broken and grabbed their belongings. They agreed to meet again tomorrow. Russia could have easily sent away the other group with a flick of the hand, but meetings usually never lasted so long or produced anything so productive. It was tiring for them, even if Russia did enjoy all of their company at the same time, and so they decided that continuing tomorrow would be best.

If the meeting had prolonged, well. There was an unspoken truce among all of them that the punches thrown were not to the nation, but to each other. If continued further...

Things would be as exactly Prussia had planned it. But they can't have that, now can they?

...

 **Plains of Abraham — _One of England's greatest victories over France. Marks the beginning of England's complete control over Canada._**

 **Paddy — _British slang for a temper tantrum._**

 **ECSC — _European Coal and Steel Community established in 1952. Members: France, Belgium, Germany, Holland, Luxembourg, and Italy. A supranational organization created after WWII to help rebuild Europe's economy by having free trade of iron-ore, coal, and steel in the member states._**

 **EEC — _European Economic Community established in 1957. Members: The same as the ECSC with the addition of the UK, Denmark, Ireland, Greece, Portugal, and Spain. Created a common market among the member nations, with no impediments to the flow of labor and goods. It aimed to continue economic growth and eventually create the European Union._**

 **We Were Once Enemies —** _ **Japan was part of the allied powers against Germany in World War I.**_

 **Himmler Swings The Other Way —** _ **Nazis were gay as fuck. Almost all the top officials were gay, actually. It's even debated on whether Hitler was bisexual or gay. Oh, Germany :)**_

 **Customers in Vienna —** _ **Apparently when Hitler was living in the slums of Vienna, he was speculated to be a male prostitute. I'm not sure of this, I read it in an article, so what Germany writes is a reaction to the rumor. A pretty strange rumor...**_

 **Jealous of America's Music —** _ **Jazz and swing music was banned under Nazi rule. But many soldiers still listened to it.**_

 ** _*I think I mentioned the EU in previous chapters but I now realized the EU was created in 1993 and not 1992. RIP*_**

 _ **...**_

 **I don't know if I can continue this fic. I have three more chapters pre-written but man...it is just so long. I have so much I want to cover and I am super critical of myself. You see, I am naturally a cold person so it takes _a lot_ to make me feel something. The fics that make me cry (or almost) are just GOLDEN.**

 **And I want to re-create that, but I'm not really as great of a writer that I think I am. Motivation is being lost fast and ah, well, idk. I will post everything I have, and, of course, write as much as I can when I have the spark too, but writing shouldn't be a chore, you know? I think I put a warning on this earlier, where this fic might not be finished because I lost motivation. I don't want to give up on this fic — I really don't!**

 **But.**

 **If this _doesn't_ get finished or completed like I intend to, at least you know why. And I really hate being _that_ author, but I wanna keep it real with you guys .-.**

 **But enough about that depressing stuff. I hope this brightened someone's night.**

 **Also. Marystadler1, why are you so good to me? You need to stop reading this trash LOL.**

 **Alright, thank you for reading and supporting! R &R and see you in the next one.**


	11. And So They Danced On Frigid Waters

Chapter Eleven — And So They Danced on Frigid Waters

...

Hungary marched towards Prussia and grabbed him by the arm. She did not give him any time to defend himself, she was dragging him by the crook of his elbow out of the hallway, through the stairs, out of the lobby, and out into the cold outdoors. She was not wearing her coat—her gray coat hanging on a lovely wooden hanger inside. The cold seeped into her face quickly, her cheeks reddening and her form shivering. She spun around.

"What the hell was that."

"A G8 meeting."

" _Prussia._ Were you trying to make me spill? Are you just looking for drama?"

Prussia's breath formed wispy clouds into the air. Hungary's hair was cold to the touch, and her breath too was visible.

"Have you forgotten how meetings work? We share things. We share _important_ things." Prussia spoke as if he was detached from the problem. And maybe he was Hungary thinks for a fleeting moment before realizing and then feeling angry that she had thought such a thing.

"If you wanted to share, then you should have told Italy yourself! Why did you put me on the spot like that?" Hungary demanded taking a step forward, her footprint soon to quickly vanish underneath the frozen rain.

"How else is he going to find out?" Prussia finally snapped. For the first time since he had arrived, he had finally shown an emotion she was familiar to.

"That's the point—he doesn't!" Hungary said.

"Why are you so against Italy knowing? He will eventually read the whole journal and know. You can't smother him or baby him, you're not a mother."

Prussia's words were cutting deep into her skin. She embroiled those words into her heart and she wants to breathe again. She does her anger now not anger but instead hurt.

"I never said I was."

Prussia shoved his hands into his coat jacket. "Then why are you so adamant on babying him? He's going to know whether you like it or not. And if there's one thing Italy hates the most is being excluded. _Especially_ the one ones he considers close."

"I'm not excluding...I'm just pro —"

"And it's not your job to do so," said Prussia.

The snow fell down gently. Hungary couldn't feel her hands and she bet Prussia couldn't either. Prussia blended in so well with the snow, it was as if he were born in the cold.

There was a harsh wind, her fringe swaying violently and her vision a fraction of what I should be. Prussia stood his ground, and Hungary wondered where exactly did the snow land on his head.

It died down, the wind calming but still stinging in smaller attacks. "If you dragged me out for this, this would be unawesome."

"...Yeah, that's it."

Prussia came over to her and Hungary felt his gloved hand pat her shoulder robotically, not sure when to continue and when to stop. She felt the leather through her thin fabric and the warmth he provided was not much. "Don't be down and shit...you're, uh."

"I'm what?" Hungary asked interested after a short pause. Prussia bloomed a rosy color.

"You're super lame and unawesome but there's no need to be sad, woman," Prussia said loudly.

She ducked her head and jabbed her boot into the pile of fresh white cotton. She wiggled her foot slowly at first, feeling the coldness seep through the material of her boot regardless. She burrowed her foot in deeper, her right boot almost completely gone from sight. It wasn't deep—the hole—only three inches or so, but she didn't need to look at Prussia's face to see him doing the same.

...

"Italy. Italy, Italy, come back —!"

Italy walked forward through the bland hallways seemingly not hearing America. The others watched curiously as to why Italy was walking away quickly and why America looked desperate. England had left immediately to go buy something (and left the building just as quickly as Italy was to America right now so he would not be America's said position).

"You gotta let me explain," said America catching up to Italy. The elevator's ding ringed, the chipper sound sending men in business suits out. Italy let them pass and moved to enter the cramped space. America squeezed himself in hurriedly despite the door not closing for another minute or so. Italy shoved his hands into his coat pockets and focused on the dull, glowing buttons with little black numbers on them.

There was no elevator music, no noise to make the situation less than what it was.

America never thought Italy could actually be angry. No, angry wasn't it. Italy doesn't become angry. He gets upset— _very, very_ upset.

"Look, Italy, I'm sorry. I really am."

The doors closed shut and no one rushed to re-open it. Italy jabbed the bottom floor button in response.

"Look, I know you're mad and stuff about what happened before, but you I swear it was only one entry! Only one and no more, I promise."

Italy lowered his head and breathed into his scarf. "Only one...?" He asked eyes cast to the floor.

"Only one," promised America.

"...But why did you read it in the first place? Why did you read it behind my back?" Italy said bitterly. There it was, the feeling he could not contain.

America didn't know how to answer. "Italy, Italy I messed up, I get that now but it wasn't intentional!"

"Then what was it?"

"I was just trying to help...I was just trying —"

"And you thought I wouldn't notice. But you messed up, and I did notice."

The ride down wasn't a very long, only six floors. But now they were at the fifth and people came in a flurry. Shades of gray and blacks came in and settled themselves in the small space. With the addition of people, Italy and America got separated, and Italy looked so small compared to the giant Russians. Italy was around the corner and didn't seem to mind it all that much.

The fourth floor came too quickly and some left there, some others staying clutching onto their briefcases impatient. America moved towards Italy, saying excuse me in horribly butchered Russian.

"So I get your mad, I would be too, so what can I do to make it up to you?" America asked in the universal language. All the countries at this point knew English and it was an unspoken rule to always talk in English with one another. It was "good practice" England had promoted smugly.

"Pasta, a porn magazine, some coffee, a date?" America continued. Italy shook his head more and more as each word tumbled out of America's mouth. "How about fifty bucks and we call it water under the bridge? Ok, maybe not money. Um. Uh. How about some movies, you like those right?"

Ding. The third floor. People leave. People come.

Italy didn't know if his teeth were chattering because he was cold or because he was getting more tired of America's excuses. Pasta, movies, money, none of that mattered to him. Why would it if he had no one to share it with?

Italy almost felt bad for America. It was as if he had lost his will to submit into dependency. And that was just as dangerous as being overly anti-independent, Italy thought.

"I don't want movies, chocolate, or whatever else you can offer me," Italy said.

America seemed lost. How else could he show he was sorry?

"...I already said I'm sorry, and you don't want anything..."

Italy rubbed his lips together and absentmindedly noticed they were chapped. America still didn't get it.

"And I don't want you to be mad at me," America finished.

Ding. The second floor. People come. People leave.

Italy thought back to all the times he's fought with his brother. The number was too high for his liking, but years bound together on the same land did not produce the same mind. Most of the fights were of one concerning his safety, and in the end, Italy did the thing he was told not to do. It was as if trial and error did not sit well with him. From tickling the kitty that didn't like being tickled every day, to agreeing to something that would produce the same results as of those thousands of years ago. Italy didn't know where this dispute landed within his long timeline but he felt as though he's in the wrong again. Somewhere, somehow, Italy bet this was his fault and that he still hasn't learned.

"It wasn't because you read the entry," Italy finally said more defeated than anything.

"Then what was it?"

Funny. Italy had asked that only a minute ago.

Why couldn't America understand that it wasn't that he read the journal, it was the principality behind it. Words, they could be re-read any day at any time. It wasn't that. It was that he read it behind his back.

He did this in secret. He didn't tell Italy. He intended to keep it a secret — Italy doesn't deserve to know. Italy _shouldn't_ know. Let's keep this hush, hush. He will never know — and if he does, oh well! It's only Italy. He wouldn't hurt a soul. Let's keep Italy in the dark, it doesn't matter. It never mattered before. It shouldn't matter now right — give him some pasta and he'll be good as new!

America demanded the book from him. That didn't work out. He destroyed the book but then fixed it. He pretended to lose it as if it were a joke.

He thought he was dating Germany and never told him. (But then again, Europe didn't either.) He told him Prussia was coming to the meeting to make him feel better, at the end saved when Prussia did come. But he didn't need comfort at the moment! Why couldn't they understand that? Why was he always treated like glass, like bubble wrap on the floor? He wasn't strong — he _knew_ this. He knew that he was not the strongest, the most well put together, or the brightest. _He knew. He knew_. But how dare they for a moment assume he was completely clueless.

It was like they treated him like a human. A human, a human! A human and not as a fellow nation who has seen war, plague, famine, revolution, and destitution all the same. And with that thought, it made Italy hitch his breath. Looking back, it has always been like that. Hungary and Austria didn't tell him the HRE was dead, it had been France. Seborga's existence. No one told him he had another brother, another kin until a body a tad bit taller than him introduced himself as a micronation and a brother.

No one told him this, no one told him that, no one told him this.

"Italy...?" America asked carefully taking the silence as a sign of the disparity in their intentions.

"It wasn't about the journal. It wasn't about the journal," Italy said.

Ding. The bottom floor. People came. All people left.

Italy escaped the confines of that small room quickly and took in the ambiance of the first floor. Voices, with motley accents blending in together, was a great thing to hear. Italy ran, and America chased. But America should have known Italy was great at running away.

Italy didn't like the cold. He never has. But he was out in the snow now, trying to see if a thing such as a snowflake actually existed. The snow looked all the same to him. They were just fat pieces of frozen water falling down from the sky. He walked away to the sound of America coming closer and closer.

"Italy!"

Italy tugged the coat closer to him. Even with his three layers of clothing, the cold seeped too deeply into his bones.

America, it seemed, always caught up to you. Because he was beside Italy again breathing heavily and looking conflicted.

"Why are you really mad?"

Italy saw his breath come out shakily and form into a ghost of what he wanted to say. "You kept it a secret from me. You weren't planning on telling me. I don't care that you read an entry, well I do — that hurt too — but it's like. It's like I'm not allowed to do even this."

"Allowed? What are you talking about?"

"Why did you read ahead when you knew I was going to be behind? Were you trying to help or were just selfish?"

"Well I mean, no. I was planning on telling you, I really was, but."

We judge ourselves by our intentions, but we judge others by their actions. I _meant_ to tell you. I _wanted_ to tell you.

"But you didn't. You didn't just like everyone else."

"No, I guess I didn't..." America looked apologetic, and Italy didn't want to forgive — he didn't want to give in, he didn't want to let this be forgotten but he knew he was going to anyway. Somehow, someway, this will seem minuscule.

 _Looking back on it Germany, it had been minuscule. So, so minuscule._

"Do you think I can do this?" Italy asked quietly. America still didn't understand. And maybe, he never really will. He knew too much, yet he also knew very little. "Please don't lie for my sake either. Just answer me honestly. Do you think I can do this?"

"I don't think you'll fail," America answered instead.

"But do you think I can do this? Do you actually believe that I, Italy, can bring back Germany and help fix the mess that Europe is in right now."

"Um. Yes?"

Italy felt the shards in his heart breaking, chipping and falling closer and closer to an incomplete fragment.

"You don't. You don't. You don't," Italy cried.

America moved closer to him, his arms in front of him not knowing how to console Italy. "Hey, hey, I do think you can do this Italy, I do!"

Do I. Do I. Do I?

"You're just saying that," Italy murmured.

"No, no I'm not. I really do think you can do it."

Italy thought America was saying it with honesty. Italy felt that his voice was actually truthful. And our thoughts are the only thing we can go off of now, aren't they.

"And I think you will be the hero!" America said with a smile. "Germany will thank you, and you'll be the hero to Germany."

Italy let a smile itch onto his face. A hero. Italy has never been called that before. "You think so?"

"I don't think, I know so!" America cheered relieved that Italy was brightening up.

"Then that means you can never do that again~!"

"Yeah! Wait what can't I do?"

"Lie to me~ Lie to me like you're doing right now."

America seemed genuinely confused. Italy chattered his teeth and curled his toes within his thick socks. He was so cold.

"Why do you keep thinking I'm lying to you?" America asked seemingly not affected by the cold.

"Journal, dating, Prussia —"

America looked away. "Okay, I get it. I haven't been the most considerate, _I guess_ but like. It's not because I don't believe in you, it's because um."

It's because I'm selfish, Italy finished in his mind. Italy was tired of the cold. Tired of his scarf not keeping him warm, tired of seeing the little white dots collect on his shoes, and tired of shivering.

Italy spun around and walked away. Italy's back seemed to know where it was going, it walked only ahead and didn't look back. The little shoulders shook, but surely it must be from the cold. And as America is standing there, seeing Italy walk away, he can't seem to get rid of the words he wanted to say that had been stuck in his throat.

America turned around to walk back into the building and stopped short. Because Hungary stood there oh so still and shocked next to Prussia's neutral stance. Prussia took Hungary's hand and led her back inside in a hurry, Hungary's eyes flickering to America and then to Prussia quickly.

Italy's footprints were gone by the time America looked back.

...

"I think that should be it," China said cutting off a piece of gauze swiftly.

Russia patted his nose and felt the stiff material cover it with little to no emotion. "Thank you China," Russia said in the "infirmary." (It was just a large janitor's closet cleared out with a bench, sink, and a first aid kit for the instances that someone got hurt. Which was every meeting.) The lights flickered and China threw away the soiled tissues of red into the waste can.

"Do you really believe Europe is going to go into chaos?" Russia asked twiddling with his scarf.

"No," China answered.

"Comrade Italy looked upset."

"I would be too if I had to deal with America all day."

Russia chuckled a bit and swung his legs on the bench not saying much more. He liked this feeling. It was good. China wasn't mad at him, and he wasn't mad at China. His chest still hurt, and his heart felt like it was straining itself too hard, but in time the pain will numb and he will have something new to call normality.

There was a knock on the door. China raised an eyebrow but went to open it. He didn't see anyone until he felt something pawing at his leg. It was a polar bear and China scooped it up and cuddled it to his face.

"Aya, so cute!" He said rubbing the fur on his face in delight.

"Kumajirou's going to scratch you if you don't set him down," Canada said worriedly. China blinked and squinted. Slowly, as if a picture coming into focus, Canada was seen. He pulled it away from his face and the polar bear glared at him. He rubbed its nose with his in happiness and set it down. The bear returned to Canada's side, and Canada just stood by the door awkwardly.

"Is that Canada?" Russia asked happily hopping off the bench. He easily saw over China and saw Canada give him a wave.

"Hello, Canada," Russia said with a smile.

"Hello, Russia," Canada responded back not cowering away. "Can I talk to you guys for a sec?"

China narrowed his eyes when Russia said to come in.

"Why?"

"It's about the journal. There's this thing I can't figure out and I was wondering if you could help me," Canada said quietly.

China did not deem Canada as a liar so he let him in. He shut the door and the room was suddenly too small for three people. There wasn't enough sitting space for three.

Canada pulled the book out of his long tan jacket and turned to the page he was looking for.

"Did comrade Canada steal the book?" Russia asked curiously.

"I-I didn't! No one took claim to it and Italy kinda stormed off so I thought I could read it and —"

China waved his nervousness away with his hands.

"It's fine. We don't really care."

Canada relaxed and showed them the thing he was stuck on. To Russia and China, all they saw was a throw up of words called German. The alphabet was hard enough for them, let alone a language with the said alphabet.

The page was heavy with scribble marks and crossed out words that the pen made sure to not reveal. "Look here," Canada said pointing to the blackness.

Russia and China saw. They saw black.

"What are we looking at?" China asked trying to see what it was that Canada wanted.

"Look closer. Do you see it?" Canada insisted.

Russia physically moved closer and was so close to the page, that he could almost smell the paper's material. He became cross-eyed and he backed away. China too seemed to be struggling.

"Canada is stupid, yes?" Russia said after seeing nothing.

Canada flushed angrily. "No, look! There are numbers underneath the scribbles. I am not dumb Russia."

Russia was more amused than threatened by Canada.

"Aya, I see it!" China said pointing a blob of black. "Underneath the words there are numbers."

Canada nodded with a kind smile. "Do you see them Russia?"

"No," Russia said angrily. "This not funny joke," he continued his grammar loosening from the feeling of being left out.

Canada guided his fingers across the page and pointed to the edge of a sentence where the tail of a one was. "Here, on the edge, do you see that one?"

"No."

"Look closer, Russia," Canada encouraged.

Russia stared and the numbers molded into shapes. They were faint but with good enough eyesight, they can be detected from the dip they made into the paper.

"Canada cheats. He has glasses," Russia said childishly.

China rolled his eyes. Canada sighed. He turned to China. "Do you know what those numbers mean?"

China wrinkled his nose. They could mean plenty of things. Dates. Passwords. Coordinates. Just random numbers.

"That is hard to answer. Numbers are vague."

"What does Canada think they are?" Russia asked him.

Canada bit lip. "I think they are something else. A message maybe."

"For the whole page?" China asked in disbelief.

"Not for the whole page. Only this line has numbers," Canada said tapping the paper.

"It looks like..." Russia began but then stopped.

"The language of numbers?" China finished.

"Da."

"What's the language of numbers?" Canada asked.

"With the alphabet, there is a language of numbers. Like a code."

"But what is it?"

"It's a system of writing using the numbers one through nine. Every number standing for a letter or combination of letters." China looked back to Canada. "I could be wrong. I think it just a bunch of numbers."

"Do you perhaps remember the code?" Canada asked hopefully. China frowned. "I could try, but it would be fuzzy."

Canada shook his head. "It doesn't matter, anything at this point is good. Thank you so much, China!"

China radiated from the praise. "It's nothing."

"Do you have some paper? Or a pen?" Canada asked.

Russia handed him a pen. China took out a piece of paper from his pocket, not very large in size and already had some Chinese cursive (rough script, China corrects Russia) scrawled onto it. But there is enough space for what they need.

China shakes the pen and runs it over his skin to get the ink flowing. Seeing the blue pour out, he sets his pen to the paper. "My memory is hazy, so it might not be the most accurate. If I remember right, one is A. Two is B. Three C. Four D. Five E. Six F. Seven G. Eight H. And nine I." China writes down all the numbers neatly and small.

"What are the rest?" Canada asks.

"I'm getting to that. Let's see...ten is J. Eleven K. Twelve L. Thirteen M. Fourteen N. Fifteen O. Sixteen P. Seventeen Q. Eighteen R. Nineteen S..." China took the paper and held up in the light. "I think that's right."

"And I'm guessing twenty is T, and twenty-one is U, and so on?" Canada said pushing up his glasses. Kumajirou tugged at his pant leg and Canada scooped up in his arms, clutching onto him across his chest. Kumajirou made himself comfortable and started to fall asleep.

"Right."

Russia got up from his seat and coughed. "I'm going to the hotel now. Goodbye, comrades."

They said their goodbyes and it was just China and Canada. China handed the piece of paper to Canada. "Here you go, Canada."

"Thank you, China," Canada said again taking the paper with some difficulty. Kumajirou growled at the disturbance and Canada murmured an apology.

"You're welcome. I'm going to the hotel too, westerners make me have a headache."

"I have some Advil if you want," Canada offered.

China denied him but thanked him nonetheless. After some more pleasantries, China left the "infirmary".

Canada looked down at the numbers and hoped that it worked. Because if you can't say it in words, numbers are the next best thing, right?

...

"Italy?"

"Ciao Japan! Can I come in?" Italy asked smiling.

Japan nodded and let Italy come in his small hotel room. The heater was at its maximum but even then, the room still felt like a cool autumn day, the temperature leaving its confines of fifty and sixty degrees. The thermostat said twenty degrees, but Italy was sure that it had to be lying.

"Your room is so clean, Japan. Did you not bring anything with you?" Italy asked taking off his boots. He wiggled his toes through his socks and relished the freedom of his aching feet.

"I did, they are just in the closet," Japan responded moving to sit on one of the tables.

Italy plopped himself down on the table and sprawled his upper torso on the table like some kind of depressed octopus. His head stayed down, his crown of brown hair falling down to his elbows covering his face. He stayed there, sitting in silence and Japan felt extremely uncomfortable.

"Ano...Are you feeling alright?" Japan asked after a minute of this.

Japan saw Italy's shoulder bob up and down. Italy looked up slightly, his eyes red and his nose equally rosy. He wiped his eyes and sniffed. He put his head back down. He took a deep breath in before finally lifting to reveal his whole face.

"Japan, am I bad a person?"

Japan immediately denied it. "Of course not, what gave you such an idea?"

Italy sniffed again and rubbed his nose. "I don't know. Why does everyone always treat me so differently? Like a baby or something?" Italy searched Japan's wise eyes desperately, but Italy knew he would not find the answers in Japan's eyes.

How to break this lightly? Italy was a crybaby and couldn't take bad news well. He would cry and cry, but as Japan tried to compile the reasons as to why Italy was so 'fragile', he realized that Italy is also the quickest to smile after the tears. He cries, yes, but he takes it just as every other nation. Japan wondered if maybe Italy is just the extremified version of what every nation feels, or wants to feel. Italy moved on quickly, and well.

That is more strength than a lot of other nations had.

Japan also knew that he could not tread around the topic this time. As hard as it is for him, he's going to have to be blunt and direct. Not at all tactful or polite, but Japan recognized that this is not Italy what needed at the moment—what Italy wanted.

"It could be that you cry a lot. Perhaps they mistake that for weakness..."

Italy blinked and his gaze shifted to the boring carpet. "So if I stop crying, they will take me seriously?"

"Is that what you want? To be taken seriously?" Japan asked softly.

Italy realized that yes. That is what he wants. He wants to be part of the discussions and have the other nations say, that's not that bad of an idea. America, the one with horrible and expensive ideas, got more credibility than he. He is not ignored (he makes it hard to be) but he is not taken into account most times.

"I would like that, si."

Japan excused himself from his seat and started to prepare some tea. Italy watched Japan with fascination at how carefully and strangely Japan poured his tea into the glass cups. Russia had been considerate and left all kinds of tea brands for the countries, and Italy wondered just why everyone hated Russia so. There was a small packet of Italian coffee there as well.

"Did America say something hurtful to you?" Japan asked neutrally. He did not reveal much, but Italy could tell there was a slight edge to Japan's voice.

"No, no! No, he didn't say anything bad to me...it's more of what he did than what he said." Italy took a sip of the tea when it was placed in front of him, but stopped right before the hot liquid could slide down his throat. He needed it for it to cool down first.

"What did he do?" Japan has not taken a sip either, but his dainty hands covered the glass ready to sip at the time he knows when ready.

"He read entries without me! He said it was only one, but I don't know if he's telling me the truth either...I'm the one who is supposed to have the journal, not America. Why did he go behind my back like that and not tell me, Japan? Did he not think I could handle it?"

Japan sighs. "America...is like an overgrown child in a man's body. I have been around him to know him quite well, and he is not a very complicated man once you know the basics," he picked his teacup and drank, "he is competitive, loud, confident, and most of all eager. Do not take offense to it. He most likely just wanted to read ahead because he was excited. Please do not think ill of him."

"But. But. When I asked him about it, he seemed tongue-tied! That has to count for something," Italy argued.

"What is that he said?"

"It's not what he said, it's _how_ he said it," Italy stressed, "and he told me that he was going to tell me _eventually_. Eventually. But not now."

Japan hasn't seen Italy this upset in a long time. Not since he had come to his place to mope that Germany would not talk to him or play with him anymore. He would come and wonder out loud why Germany always had an excuse, but sadly Japan had sworn to secrecy to never tell. Germany had stressed to never tell Italy...especially Italy...

"The meeting has ended, so that means you can reclaim your ownership to the book and read the entries that America did," Japan told him calmly.

Italy's eyes widened. He jumped up and slammed his hands down flat on the table shaking the table. Japan recoiled in shock and peered up to Italy.

"The book! The book! It's still back in the meeting room, Japan!"

Japan widened his eyes as well.

"What am I going to do, Japan," Italy wailed, "What if a big, scary Russian picks it up and says, 'Comrades, look. Book. Time to burn it and then put it out with vodka, da, da, da.' Russia told me vodka is Russian water — They better not ruin the book! I swear to God if they ruin that book _I will go Albert Anastasia on their —"_

"Please calm down!" Japan fretted cutting off Italy's angry Italian cursing.

Italy took a deep breath in and let out slowly. His body slumped. "This is horrible, Japan. What if the book is lost?"

"Please, let's think rationally. Who had the book last?"

"Canada," Italy responded.

"Yes. Did you see him leave the room with it?"

Italy thought back. No, he hadn't seen much of anything. He needed to leave and get far away from America's impending stare of guilt so he had left as fast as he could. Even if he had, he doubted he would have seen Canada anyway.

"No..."

"Do you believe America has it?" Japan asked putting away the cups of tea—one full, the other spotless to the white rim.

"No, he chased after me. Hungary dragged Prussia off somewhere even faster than me...England went off to go buy something and France went with England I think...I don't know where China and Russia went off too. What if America had been right? That it was Russia!"

"You left out China," Japan reminded.

Italy shook his head. "China wouldn't take it. He doesn't really like to get involved with Europe except for the economy."

"That narrows it down to Canada and Russia."

"If they have it."

"If they have it," Japan agreed. "Let's go check if either one has it, then see if it was left in the meeting room."

Italy shoved his boots back on and Japan re-knotted his scarf. Japan took his hotel key card and struggled to keep up with Italy's hurried gait.

They walked through the long hallway, and Italy stopped short causing Japan to abruptly halt as well.

Russia had found it easier to place all the nations in one hallway in the hotel. France and England, of course, were on opposite ends of the hallways, and the North American brothers were right next to each other. Japan walked forward a tad to see what made Italy's hand twitch.

Russia was leaving a room with gestures of speaking with someone else.

"It's no problem, yes?" Russia asked facing the door. Italy couldn't see who was behind, but he clenched his jaw.

"Just make sure to put it back where you found it, Russia. We need it undestroyed for tomorrow," the voice responded with mirth.

Italy turned around and kept walking until the hallway divided into a secluded alleyway for the cleaning ladies' supplies. There, Italy and Japan were out of sight and still close enough to hear the conversation. Italy was silent, barely moving his chest as he clutched the cold edge of the wall tightly alongside Japan's careful ear. Russia didn't notice.

"You're certain this will work?" Russia asked.

"It has to. I don't see another time to do this. I doubt by the next meeting Italy will be ah...innocent? Don't — Don't give me that look, you know what I mean!"

Russia laughed. Italy didn't know Russia had the capability to not make it sound life-threatening.

"Who do you think it is?" Italy whispered to Japan.

"Perhaps France? No...it isn't him..." Japan whispered back.

Italy clutched tighter on the wall.

"You are so fun to tease! Tomorrow, we reveal. Sound like a plan?"

The figure stepped out into the light, smiling. "It's a plan, Russia. Hopefully, Italy won't freak out. He did look really upset earlier."

The figure was tall and blonde, wearing a light brown jacket and handing Germany's diary to Russia's cold, black-gloved hands. Russia took the journal and stored it in his large overcoat and patted it safely on his chest.

But Italy didn't see that the body had a distinctive curl or a taller posture or amethyst eyes. All he saw was that the bridge of the nose held glasses, the hair was blonde, and the body was coming out of the North American section of the hallway.

"Little Italy will be fine. If not, we squish like a bug!"

"No, Russia. We will not squish Italy..."

Russia pouted. He then gained this _look_ and started lean down towards the figure. The man stood still and Italy could just hear him stop breathing in anticipation. The figure with glasses wrapped his arms around Russia's neck as they kissed.

Italy didn't hear the rest as he pulled himself deeper into the alleyway forcing himself to not listen to the voices. So that's how it was...Of course. Of course! Why would he expect any different, hahahaha!

Russia's footsteps faded away, Russia thankfully taking the opposite direction to leave, and the hotel door closed.

"Are you alright?" Japan asked tentatively looking worried and confused as to why Italy was tilting his head up to the blinding light, Italy's Adam's apple prominent and pronounced across his pale skin. He stood there still, and Japan wondered if just maybe this is how he blinded himself. Always looking up but then looking down because it's painful and it's suddenly not as bright.

He eventually lowered his head and wiped his eyes.

"Sorry for worrying you Japan. Isn't it neat? This trick I learned — when you feel like crying, tilt your head up so the tears won't fall down," Italy rasped, "Gravity will make the tears go back into your eyes and, and you won't cry."

Japan felt his own heart squeeze. Something was breaking inside of Italy, an emotion Italy had been trying to keep confined to the warm waters. But the feelings are turning cold and seeping out of the edges.

"What are you going to do now?"

Italy smiled, and Japan was forced to look into Italy's misty eyes. "What am I going to do? I'm going to get the journal back, silly. I don't care that it's Russia or America. _I will get it back._ "

Maybe it was the light — maybe it was the silent drone in the vacant hallway, or it was just the old heaters in the background humming — because, at that moment, Japan believed Italy.

...

"America are you okay?" Canada asked America who sat on the edge of his bed eating ice cream and chomping on the wafer cone in aggressive bites. Canada had bought him the ice cream with his own money and time, thinking that America would need the mood booster. And now the ice cream was gone.

"No! I fucked up big time, dude!" America wailed not bothering to wipe the crumbs off his mouth. Canada went over to the napkins in the bathroom and chucked the plastic box at America.

Canada moved to sit beside America, the bed dipping from his weight. "Why's that, Al?"

America sniffed. "I can't tell you. It's super secret and stuff."

Canada gave him a deadpan look.

"I'm serious. I can't have you hatin' on me too! Because apparently what I did was just _so_ horrible. England did it too, but Italy doesn't seem to want to murder him!" America flopped his back on the bed, his gaze now on the ceiling.

"Maybe because England didn't purposely do it?" Canada had learned a long time ago with his brother that asking direct questions were useless. America's tendency to babble was enough way to get the truth out. And since America wasn't feeling especially defensive, the secret, Canada induced, was not that bad.

"Or maybe it's because he scrammed like a coward. Damn England, he should have taken me with him," America grumbled turning to his side to face Canada.

"I mean, the thing you did was pretty bad...I would be mad too if I were Italy…" Canada said bullshitting America. And America fell right for it.

"It was only one entry, bro! ONE! It wasn't like I set the thing on fire or anything! And so what if I read _one_ entry? He's alive, I'm alive, so."

Canada's eyes widened. "Maple, you read ahead? Without Italy's permission?"

America looked confused under his glasses. "Yeah, that's kinda the reason the mafia is after me right now and planning my death?"

"The mafia? Just what did you do!"

"Yeah," America breathed, "The mafia is totally coming after me. Because Italy will tell Romano, and Romano is going to get pissed and send his pasta-smelling mafia dudes and I'm going to have PTSD of the twenties again. I can't have those flashbacks, bro. I just can't!"

Canada wasn't sure if America was kidding or not. It is true Romano is not threatening himself, but his henchmen were. And Romano is protective of Italy...Canada decided to file that thought for later.

"I don't think the mafia is coming after you, America. Romano doesn't like to get involved with them unless necessary," Canada said trying to console.

America rolled around on the bed. "That's what everyone who is being hunted down by the mafia says before their brains go _kaplat!_ Bro, I had so much to live for. Like. _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ comes out next year. I want to live to see that, dude!"

"We can't die, remember?"

America paused. "Oh yeah."

Canada sighed. America could not have chosen a better time to upset Italy.

"America, did you apologize at least?" Canada asked looking down at his sad brother.

"Of course! I apologized but he didn't accept it. He was all, no. I cannot forgive you."

Somehow Canada had a hard time believing that. Italy not forgiving someone? Especially for something so minor?

"Then you have to think about what's making Italy so upset America. Italy doesn't become mad for no reason."

America groaned. "You're supposed to be on my side. I would have gone to England if I want to be chewed out!"

"Then you should have gone to England."

"I just don't get it," America continued, "Why Italy thinks what I did is that end of the world. It was only one. One! And it's not like he can't go back and read it for himself."

Canada shook his head. "It's not about that Al."

"Then what is it about?"

"Think about it like this...put yourself in Italy's shoes —"

"Alright. Weak and emotional, got it."

"Alfred! Italy is not weak," Canada reprimanded fearful that Italy would overhear somehow.

America laughed. "Good one, bro! Everyone knows Italy is a pipsqueak."

"You shouldn't be saying things like that…" Canada fretted.

"Meh. Whatever. You were saying?"

"Just put yourself in his place. Imagine if it were England that was missing. Completely vanished from the face of the earth, and England was still bitter and cold towards you. His behavior like that after the Revolution for years, even if you both were supposed to be on good terms. You would miss him, eh? You would be sad that he ignored you right and just left without a trace?"

America was going to interject but Canada continued. "And then England stops coming to the meetings entirely. No one cares for months until suddenly everyone's governments kick them in the butt to force to care. But you always did, and you feel mad because everyone is suddenly caring when they didn't before. Let's say Scotland came in, dropped England's diary on the table for everyone to read."

"You take it, naturally, and you are determined to find England. You can't wait, you want to find him as soon as possible. But Scotland talks in evasive sentences not really worried and others are trying to steal the diary away from you because they want to treat it as a prize and not something special. You investigate, but it seems like everyone knows something you don't. They look at each other in glances and speak in whispers."

"They think you can't do it. You're too selfish and stupid."

"And then we have this meeting. And you find out that, I don't know, I read a couple entries ahead behind your back because I could."

America was clutching onto the bed sheet in anger. He had wanted to cut Canada off many times but Canada's violet eyes only grew darker and his tone blander, irritating America even more. America didn't realize how easily Canada has proven his point.

"That would never happen! I wouldn't make it happen!" America said fiercely.

"That's what Italy thought, but look where he is."

"Yeah, but! I wouldn't get mad over something as dumb as that."

"Really Al?" Canada said sarcastically.

"I wouldn't!" America persisted.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well. I wouldn't. I wouldn't because I would have found England with or without anyone's help. So what if everyone thinks I did it, _I didn't._ I would be England's hero! Screw Europe!"

Canada smiled. "Then I don't think you and Italy are all that different."

...

Russia opened an eye when he heard the quiet hallway disturbed with sound. Someone was leaving the room, the heavy door opening quiet to those heavy asleep in the hotel. It was midnight now, all the countries fast asleep in their warm beds.

Russia swung his legs over the bed and wrapped his scarf around his scarred neck. He moved through the dark room like a shadow, fastening his large coat with little hurry. He slipped his boots on and patted his jacket to check if he still had his pipe.

He did.

Russia stretched his warm leather gloves over his pale fingers, flexing his hand once after putting them both on. Russia didn't feel tiredness pulse through his eyes, he instead opened the door cursing the lights that blared through his vision. He closed the door quietly and walked through the halls in light steps. He saw his shadow move with him as he descended the stairs, opting out on the elevator. The receptionists were asleep behind the desks, the lobby silent and vacant with lonely lights to illuminate an empty room. (Russia would have to talk to the manager about this later.) The kitchen lights were turned off, the food not ready until another seven hours.

A blond opened her eyes slightly at a disturbance but then shut them again, fatigue overcoming her.

Russia walked through the eerie lobby and pushed the unlocked doors. He was immediately stung by the inhumane temperatures of the outside. His body walked through the barrier of warmth and cold and ventured outside with assured, even steps. His body didn't feel the daggers of the arctic winds, his body not really feeling anything anymore. His breath was visible, but Russia can't think of a life where his breath doesn't follow him.

Russia took in the sound of city life around him. Russia always liked night the best, the lights were so pretty around him. The lights didn't mean much without someone to see them, but Russia liked to pretend. The small tree in front of him meant for aesthetics swayed a bit, and Russia walked on the wide pathway meant for pedestrians.

Russia walked through the snow, his boots making deep imprints. On the same pathway, smaller imprints amused him. The other countries never learn, do they?

Russia hummed to himself as he followed the footsteps, the night no longer snowing just trapping its creations with proud frost. Frozen the scene would have been if not for these foolish steps.

Russia continued, the footprints taking turns, and Russia saw two parallel lines in the concrete. The figure must have fallen on its knees if the handprints were evidence to anything. Russia lowered himself and drew a smiley face on the ground. Bits of white clung to his pointer finger like sticky cotton candy, and he smiled. He gazed at the sky and wondered just where the moon went. Onward he went.

He walked until the trail stopped. The trail stopped at a demolished building. An extension of sorts for the UN building. Russia gazed upon the figure on the ground shaking and breathing heavily. He made his boot crunch on the snow, making the figure's head up like a startled deer. The figure gulped but did not look away.

Russia felt the exhale of his nose upon his lips as he walked forward to the nation on its knees in the snow not moving. The body was on a bench and close to the road. Russia saw balls of snow on the ground and bored his eyes into the amber ones.

"Italy is going to die if he stays outside," Russia warned lightly.

"R-Russia what are you-you doing out... here…?" Italy replied with difficulty. He chattered his words out, his jaw refusing to stay still. He was nervous and freezing.

Russia walked closer to Italy. Italy tensed.

"I should be asking that. Why is comrade outside? Little Italy is going die," Russia continued with growing amusement.

Italy felt that snowball underneath his hand. "I-I wanted to ma-make a snowman…"

"A snowman?" Russia looked down in curiosity. Italy is silly, he thought.

"Y-Yes. Does Ru-Russia want to help me?" Italy asked smiling innocently through cold lips.

Russia blinked in surprise. He ducked his cheeks into the scarf. He shifted.

"Why would I want to build a snowman? It is dumb."

Italy disagreed. "It's not dumb, Russia. C-Come on, it'll be f-fun." He took Russia's hands and tried to guide him over to his pathetic snowballs.

Russia didn't move. He narrowed his eyes not willing to let himself be submerged into false niceness. "Why is Italy out here if he hates cold? Italy seems to be hiding something."

Italy shook his head as if scandalized. "It's usually too warm at m-my place for snow and Germany do-doesn't like the cold either. I-I wanted to make a snowman before it's too-too late."

Russia's gaze of suspicion did not leave and in turn, Italy squirmed even more nervously. Italy was afraid, Russia knew. Italy wasn't crying, that would only hurt him. Italy couldn't cry for help, because whatever Italy was hiding would be questioned. Italy was terrified of Russia, yet here he was lying to him.

Russia didn't like liars.

Russia started to pull out his pipe, and Italy moved back with wide eyes. He looked to his left and right to see if any city goers would come and help him.

"I have relatives in Boston, don-don't kill me!" Italy cried in panic.

Russia tilted his head. "We are in Moscow, little Italy. I do not care about American pigs." The pipe was high in the air, gleaming under the street lights.

Italy shook violently. "Pl-Please spare me…"

Russia lowered his pipe and looked down at the half-finished snowman. He felt a wave of nostalgia hit him. His mind wandered back to the times when Belarus would cling to him because she was cold and starving, and Russia was just the same with a duty. She would smile so happily when building a snowman with him even if her hands were shaking and bare. And then Ukraine would come and smile tiredly, and those hard times filled with plague and famine were the closest things he had ever known as a family.

During his little muse, Italy had stared wide-eyed like a lamb waiting to be eaten. Russia would have loved to see Italy's face smashed into little pieces but he found him lowering his weapon full way. His arm swung limply, his pipe splattered with blood casting a shadow.

Italy waited for his death with shut eyes when Russia moved his hand and opened them when he didn't notice pain. He saw Russia looking confused and angry.

"You're not...gonna k-kill me?" Italy asked in disbelief.

Russia smiled as he gripped his pipe. "I can always choke little Italy to death if he prefers!"

Italy shook his head violently. Russia didn't move, and Italy let out a sigh of relief. He immediately latched himself onto Russia.

"Thank you for not killing me!" Italy said nuzzling his cheek into Russia's coat.

Russia stiffened. He tried to shove Italy off immediately, growling as he jostled the clinging Italian. Italy let go but before he did so, his petite hand dug into Russia's coat.

Russia felt his chest be invaded with a swift hand and swung his pipe out of reflex. Italy dodged the pipe with a shrill scream and jumped back a good distance away from Russia. Italy was breathing heavily, and Russia could hear his heartbeat quake in trepidation from where he stood. He flashed a murderous look.

Italy has stolen something from him.

 _Italy had stolen something from him._

Russia held important things in his jacket, things from his sisters and monarchies he held dear.

"Italy will scream so prettily. And there will be no Germany to save him," Russia said lowly.

Italy bolted. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, his surroundings becoming gray strips within the giant blur. It's been awhile since Italy had felt the adrenaline of running away from a threat. His throat tightened, and he felt his stomach knot into a tight ball of nerves and the primal need to escape, escape, _escape_. Italy didn't have his white flag right now, but he doubted at this moment he would actually wave it.

His powerful legs ran through the foreign streets, the muscles stretching and never looking back. Italy whipped his head around to see Russia chasing him with a pipe with a look intended for murder.

He saw the Moscow river frozen in front of him. There was a barrier so the pedestrians wouldn't fall in but still admire the river when it wasn't frozen. The river was a frozen sheet of steely white, and Italy saw Russia gaining on him quickly. He murmured a prayer to himself.

Italy jumped over the barrier.

Russia widened his eyes as he saw Italy force his weight onto the frozen waters. The water was only frozen on the surface level, a crack in the ice a death wish for the victim. Crack the ice and the below-freezing waters will kill you. With no ledge to grab onto, the water will take you away gurgling for help and by the time the sun rose for the third day, the body will be floating peacefully.

Italy wobbled on the water like an infant deer. He was shaking and hoping that Russia wasn't crazy enough to follow him. Russia wasn't sure if he should. Italy was light, it was only a shove down that could he make a slight crack. Russia. He was two hundred pounds of muscle.

But when he saw Italy clutching onto something brown and small close to his chest, he narrowed his eyes making Italy shake. He exhaled like some kind of angry bull, his ribs screaming — pleading — to rest already. He hopped over the same barrier, and Italy looked extremely uneasy. Italy wanted to bolt, run away to who knows where, but it seemed as though a look came over him to remind himself for the reason he was out there in the first place.

Russia walked toward Italy with practice, his foot not sliding on the ice. A car whizzed by and the light from it made Russia's hair practically glow.

Italy gulped, and he screeched when the pipe came whizzing by his ear. He moved, and they danced on the frozen waters. Italy dodged every swing, and he felt his heart beat out of his chest when he slipped and fell to his knees. Russia grinned and swung down heavily, making a crack as Italy rolled away with a scream and tears.

"This is a fun game, Italy!" Russia chirped enjoying the challenge. This reminded him of the game America had shown him once. What was it called? Don't Break the Ice! Ah, he was good at that game. But it seemed as though Italy just had to fall through. Russia needed to win, you see. He just had to hit hard enough and carefully enough, and they would all be happy! He would be the winner. Then they would play again. And then he would win again. And again. And again. And again. And again —

Eventually, Italy was cornered. Italy felt the concrete hit his back, the barrier looking quite appealing to jump over. Russia smiled and raised his arm to Italy's tearful face.

"Please...don't…"

A blood-curdling scream rang throughout the city with a sharp, rigid splash. The ice cracked and a body sunk thrashing desperately towards the night sky.

The lights were always prettier at night, Russia thought again.

...

 **Rough Script —** _ **A form of Chinese calligraphy. It's basically Chinese cursive as it's sloppier and more rushed than normal. It's a little hard to read with the strokes blending into one another loosely. It originates from the Han Dynasty so I would imagine China using it from time to time.**_

 **Albert Anastasia —** _ **One of the most ruthless and feared Italian-American mobsters in US history. One of the founders of The American Mafia during the pre-war era and during most of the 1950s. He was perhaps the most feared hitman,**_ _ **earning the infamous nicknames "The Mad Hatter" and "Lord High Executioner" because he enjoyed watching his victims die under extremely cruel conditions. Technically you can say this is more Romano's area, but ey. Italians will be Italians.**_

 _ **...**_

 **Something about not posting in a while always makes me have cold feet. Agh.**

 **So I think I have finally figured out what has been making me so demotivated dudes. I hold this fic to a very high standard and want it to be absolutely perfect, but I realize that it's not because duh. First long one. So! I decided to stop being so hard on myself and just post. If not many people like, I can at least know that I finished all the way through which is a big accomplishment in my eyes as a fanfic author :) I lose interest fast and usually stick with one-shots.**

 **So I will probably go back to this and edit the chapters and revise it, but yes. I know that it's not the greatest. To the people still reading, wow! Thank you!**

 **Anyway, thank you to all those who have reviewed and who are still interested in this! Honestly seeing that you guys love this so much brings me immense joy. It's incredible how differently the author and reader will see a story. With that being said, leave a review and see you in the next chapter!**


	12. Our Grand Folly

Chapter 12 — Our Grand Folly

…

"Where are they? It's been almost an hour since the meeting was supposed to start! If this were my place this wouldn't —"

"Yes, yes, this wouldn't happen. We know America."

America slumped against his chair when England snapped at him. China, Hungary, Austria, Canada, Japan, France, England, America, and Prussia were all in the meeting by nine in the morning like they had agreed. Except there was no hosting nation or Europe's most gossiped about star-crossed lover.

"Has anyone seen Italy? I hope nothing has happened to him," France asked worriedly. They all shook their heads.

"When was the last time anyone saw Italy? Or Russia?" England asked.

"I last saw Russia when I took him to get his nose bandaged," China chimed in.

"Which was?"

"After the meeting. Russia left the infirmary while I stayed to talk to Canada."

"What about Italy?" England asked again.

"I last saw him talking to America after the meeting. Not that far away from the building but Italy looked pretty upset. He walked away from what seemed like an argument," Hungary said interested as to what Italy looked so mad about.

"An argument? What is this about?" France questioned.

Canada sent America an unwavering gaze. America looked conflicted, and Canada just shook his head disappointed. That made America feel worse, and he ran a hand through his hair.

"I may have, totally not major or anything, may have, maybe, possibly, really small chance here, kind of, wouldn't think much of it really, like —"

"Just spit it out," Hungary grumbled.

"I may have pissed off Italy without realizing it," America finished.

"And how did you manage to do that?" Prussia asked amused.

"So you guys know how I ripped out the book from Canada's hands?" America began to explain, "I showed him the entry after the one I read. I read ahead of Italy for only one entry and I guess I forgot to flip to the one he was on. He wouldn't have known but just one little line had to mess everything up."

"You read an entry without Italy? So you did steal the book without permission," Hungary accused.

"An act of treason, no?" France drolled with a hand on his cheek.

"What! Treason?" America cried.

"We made a deal. Italy would have the book and we would report back if anything came up to aid with the search," China commented factually.

"We didn't sign on anything," America argued back.

"This situation isn't exactly something we can sign on," China replied back.

"Alright, we get it. America is a dunce, but that still doesn't answer where Italy and Russia are. And, I would also like to point out, the journal is gone," England cut in with a scowl.

The nation's eyes widened, and Prussia jolted in his seat, clenching his fists and glaring furiously at England.

"Who had it last, eyebrows?" he demanded loudly.

England glowered intensely at the name. "I don't know. If I did would I ask?"

"Well, America and you are alike. Both liars," France mocked to get a rise out of England. England grit his teeth.

"Are you insinuating that _I_ have the book?"

"It wouldn't surprise me at this point is all I am saying _mon ami._ "

"I do not have it, surprise," he scathingly bit back.

"Hey, can you guys not be totally gay for a sec? I'm trying to think," America said shutting his eyes.

Hungary chuckled, and England and France just continued to give each other dirty looks from across their seats.

"Should we just leave?" Austria asked more than willing to rise out of his seat and go back home. He hasn't heard or played any music for a solid day and it was driving him mad. These notes of shrill screams and suspicion were not beautiful and they were quite honestly, dull to Austria's ears.

"I don't think so Austria," Canada said.

Austria straightened his lip in disapproval, and Hungary sent him a look of understanding. It seemed they were fine with each other again, their argument just another one in the pile of many.

"If someone doesn't walk through that door in ten minutes, I'm leaving," Prussia declared.

"Aren't you worried about Italy?" Canada asked.

"And that's why I would be leaving, Birdie," Prussia said with thoroughness.

"I will too," China agreed whole-heartedly.

"We have been here for a long time...I will leave as well," France said in favor of Prussia's idea. Prussia smirked, glowing with pride as more countries agreed to follow his plan. The vote eventually came down to Japan who had yet to say anything.

"And you Japan?" England asked his friend.

"I will stay."

America raised a brow but respected it. "Alright, ten minutes starts now." America set the timer on his watch to ten minutes and the clock immediately flipped to nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds. America watched the seconds go by until it said nine and thirty-four. He looked up and saw the nations shift as if his watch was a bomb.

The minutes stretched on, America periodically announcing the benchmarks of time. Eight minutes, five minutes, two minutes.

The nation's didn't speak much. There was a common anticipation now, all arguments forgotten at the moment to see if someone would walk through the door before the ticking time.

"Thirty seconds," America counted off.

Austria began to pack his briefcase, already standing up to leave. Italy wasn't coming. Russia wasn't coming.

Hungary felt a foolish hope within her. She hoped, knew, Italy would come swooping in apologizing about sleeping in or getting distracted by a pretty Russian girl. Italy would smile and let them sigh a breath of relief. She would hug him and make sure he is okay because nowadays, Hungary couldn't tell what Italy was fully, truly thinking. She never could, she doesn't think anyone could, but she knew enough.

The alarm blazed through the room, its strident shriek startling them. No door opened to its call.

Hungary sighed as the others stood up and started to file out the door. She stayed in her seat as America announced, "Time's up! I guess no Italy or Russia." America pressed the stop button and looked apologetic.

"Prussia, you know Moscow best. You lead us," Hungary said getting up and patting down her dress. She walked to the door and looked back to Japan sitting down stoically. She shuffled toward Japan stopping the whole group from leaving to watch.

"Japan, are you sure you don't want to come with us? You're probably going to be waiting in vain…"

" _Hai_ , I am sure," Japan said with his monotone voice.

"If he does come, please tell us."

Japan's nodded in confirmation. "Of course."

She turned around ready to leave when the door flew open. Hungary recoiled in shock and the others do as well as they back away quickly from the door to not get impaled from the sharp knobs.

Hungary sucked in her breath.

 _"Ciao_ everyone!"

...

"You're crushing me, Hungary," Italy wheezed as Hungary trapped him in a bone-crushing hug.

"Oh, Italy I thought something horrible happened to you! You had me so worried. Just what were you thinking?" Hungary rushed as she let go and grasped onto his shoulders tightly with her manicured hands.

Italy was dazed. "I was...I was taking a shower. I woke up late. I'm sorry." He smiled sheepishly. "I didn't think I would worry you guys that much."

Hungary gave him an intense, dark look, and Italy cowered away. It quickly went away. "As long as you are okay." She scanned him over and didn't see anything abnormal. He still wore a thick jacket inside.

"Italy, you kept us waiting. Not awesome," Prussia grouched.

"Where's Russia?" China asked immediately after.

Italy winced. "He's not feeling well. He told me he wasn't coming." His face softened in sympathy. "Poor Russia, he got really sick."

"Russia is unwell?" England asked suspiciously at the sudden revelation. Italy felt England's green eyes search through him, and he turned to face England with a stretched smile. "He's not coming."

England felt a shiver go down his spine. America noticed England stiffen and gazed back at Italy as well. He didn't see anything wrong.

"I should check up on him," China informed ready to slither through the door.

Italy's voice stopped him. "He doesn't want any visitors. He told me to not let anyone come and see him."

"And since when are you and Russia so close?" Austria asked raising a brow.

"Russia's not a bad guy! He's great to hug and has soft hair," Italy chirped as he walked over to the table. He dug into his pocket and took a book out.

It was Germany's journal.

Japan and Canada stiffened like a board.

Italy smiled wider at Japan's wide eyes and winked at him. Japan looked away quickly not daring to see into Italy's eyes.

"Since Italy is here and Russia is a no-show, I guess we have to start the meeting without him," America declared.

"But he's the hosting nation," refuted China.

America shrugged not bothered with the situation. "And he's not feeling well."

"Italy, what is it exactly that he's come down with?" England asked.

Italy took a seat next to Japan. "I don't know. He didn't want to tell me, he got angry and hit me with his pipe. It was scary! So I left, and he told me not to let anyone else do the same as I did. I hope Russia is okay, he seemed very sick."

It was so convincing, Japan would have believed it as well. But he didn't.

The other nations did.

"Hit you! Where did he hit you? Are you alright, Italy?" Hungary immediately cried with concern. She rushed over to him, and Italy lifted up his dress pants to reveal a dark purple and blue bruise on his calf. It was a nasty injury, one with clear intentions to break the bone and shatter the surrounding ligaments. Although it was only a bruise, a deep dark bruise, it still caused panic.

America immediately jumped in when seeing the injury. "See! See! That commie can't be trusted! Give him a little trust and shit like this happens!" America cried waiting for everyone to agree. The others began talking and thinking, can Russia ever be trusted?

Hungary pressed down on the injury gently and looked utterly heartbroken — the thought, the notion that Italy actually got himself hurt made her swell with rage and sadness.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Hungary asked gently.

"Did it hurt a lot?" America asked squeezing himself to the front.

"It doesn't hurt a lot right now, most of the pain was from this morning. He got out his pipe, and I tried to run away but I tripped on his carpet, and he swung his scary pipe down at me. He didn't miss and it hurt so much, _Dio Mio!_ It was torture! But then he coughed out blood, and I ran to my room. I took a shower and came rushing down here. It hurts if you press down on it."

Canada grit his teeth.

"Woah dude, you're, like, a hero!" America said amazed.

Italy perked up. "A hero? A hero? I guess I'm not a pipsqueak then? Yay!"

America laughed but then stopped abruptly with wide eyes. He looked down to Italy but his face was being smothered by Hungary's chest.

"I'm so glad you weren't hurt any further," Hungary said softly before letting him go. Even if Italy was millenniums old, Hungary will always treat him like a small child. Prussia had it all wrong. Italy wasn't her son — she wasn't trying to be a mother, she was simply a big sister. Because that would entail that Austria was the father and Hungary will not do with a broken family. They weren't.

"I'm going to go check up on Russia," Canada announced knowing most won't hear him now that Italy had stolen the spotlight.

Predictably, very little nations turned around. But Prussia did and immediately latched onto him. "Birdie, you can't go to that nut job! Didn't you see the unawesome thing he did to Italy? You'll be —"

"I can handle myself," Canada began sharply, "and I don't think Russia will turn me away." Canada pushed away Prussia and started walking towards the door briskly. The others watched interested, a new show of entertainment.

Prussia looked lost and jogged up to him. "Woah, woah, what's got you all riled up?"

Canada exhaled. He didn't want to accuse Italy anything, it would be hard to, but he and Italy were not too far apart once he thought about it. Most nations assume Canada wouldn't do anything because he liked peace and nonviolence. He liked it. That doesn't mean he _couldn't_ use violence and unfairness.

And while Italy was a crybaby and generally a weak nation, that simply couldn't be the case one hundred percent of the time. Because he was in the textbooks, he was seated in the key chairs of every international organization, and he was still alive and standing after decades and decades and decades of imperious, avaricious fallacies. His place was solid for the things he did in the past, and it was foolish for the nations in the room to assume that Italy was incapable.

"Nothing. Just continue the meeting without me." Canada didn't give anyone time to respond as he slammed the door shut. Prussia stood there confused, and the sound of the door shutting echoed throughout the room.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Aaawkward," America said trying to break the tense air.

"Well damn, what's got him so pissed?" Prussia grumbled going back to his seat. Italy vibrated in his seat. He wouldn't stop shaking his right leg, and Japan took note of this.

"Italy are you alright?"

Italy shoved his seat back and jumped up. "I have to go pee!" He scurried to the door, flying to the door handle with narrowing eyes until something blocked his way.

"Hey wait, you just got here!" America said blocking Italy with both arms stretched out by the double doors. Italy flashed America a dark, murderous look but it quickly went away.

"But I have to go pee really bad! Really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really —"

"Just let Italy go," France said wanting to rub his head at the increasing pitch of Italy's voice.

"But we waited so long for him to come French fry —"

"Just let him go, he looks like he's about to piss all over the floor," Prussia agreed, eyeing the way Italy was frantically shaking his leg and moving from heel to heel.

America slowly lowered his arms at the expectant gazes of everyone and slid to the side. Italy yanked the door open, his wrist almost snapping with how harshly he yanked the handle down and bolted out of the room. America blinked.

"Was that weird to anyone?" America asked.

"Something did feel off," China said.

"Yeah, like he was jumpy or something."

"Do you think he has something to talk about with Canada?" Hungary said.

"I don't think so but my bro being pissed is pretty weird too," America said pushing up his glasses.

"We now know where the journal is at least," England reminded.

"Oh yeah! Italy had it. See. Neither of us had it, France!" America stuck his tongue out as France shook his head.

"Should we just wait for Italy?" China asked.

"Seems like the best option," England said.

"Why is there so much fucking waiting. So unawesome," Prussia complained loudly.

"Well, I mean unless someone has something new to share, we can't do much," America said feeling the same. He swept his eyes around the table expecting for someone to straighten their back and announce a new piece of information.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Wow," America said. "Are you guys even trying?"

"Of course we are!" Hungary immediately answered. "Right guys?"

"Of course," everyone replied, some eager, most just saying it for the sake of not getting glared at by Hungary.

"I've been busy with not making my people shit in buckets," Prussia defended.

"And I with my own people getting...antsy," France said as well.

"I have been helping Italy," Japan said. China gave him a look that screamed to differ.

"Do you have something to share, America?" France asked instead so the others wouldn't have to list off their reasons for the lack of progress. It was obvious that even now with direct government orders and visual depredation the countries would not care to look for Germany.

America blew a piece of hair out of his face. "Naw."

Hungary seemed to be uneasy, and Prussia sent her an encouraging look. Hungary just ignored the gaze. She was itching to grab the paper in her bag and show them, but she knew that she couldn't. Not yet.

Japan looked as if he wanted to be anywhere other than there, and the only one who seemed to be ultimately oblivious was China. America placed his palm on his cheek and stared at the flags on the wall quizzing himself on all motley stripes that represent the masses.

England put his head down and shut his eyes enjoying the rare stillness in the room. France leaned back and wondered if anyone was willing to braid his hair. Eventually, he decided to do it himself.

China started eating the dumplings he had brought and some of the breakfast food he had smuggled in. He offered some to America, and America gladly ate with him.

And so they waited.

And waited.

Prussia started clapping slowly. He continued to clap until all the countries looked at his smirking face. He continued to clap, his pale hands hitting each other rhythmically. "Won't you look at that. You guys can shut the hell up."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Austria asked annoyed.

"Look at you guys. Silent as mice. Who would have thought?" Prussia shook his head all too amused.

"What else are we supposed to do?" Hungary asked narrowing her eyes.

Prussia put his hands up lazily. "I'm not saying anything. Don't ya just think it's funny? Only two weeks and a half and you guys are getting along so well," he cooed.

America rolled his eyes. "It's not like we can't get along. Right, guys?" America looked to the room with a bright smile.

Everyone looked away. America's smile fell.

"Oh."

"Congrats kesesese," Prussia cackled.

"Shut the hell up, Pr —" Hungary began before she was cut off by screaming outside the door.

"You take that back!" A voice yelled.

All the countries looked at each other.

"You can't prove it," another voice spat back.

"Call me crazy...but was that Italy?" Hungary said slowly.

England lifted up his head slowly and rubbed his eyes. "What's going on?" he said with a scratchy voice. America shushed him.

"I don't need proof, it's obvious."

"And I think that's Canada," Hungary whispered loudly.

"No way," Prussia said getting up. He walked over to the door.

"What are you doing? Don't open the door!" Hungary hissed. But it was too late because Prussia yanked the door open. He peeked his head to the bland hallways and sure enough saw Canada and Italy glaring at each other. Canada more than Italy, Italy obviously nervous but still holding ground.

Canada flickered his eyes to Prussia like a hawk and immediately looked back at Italy as if he hadn't seen him. Prussia leaned by the door with legs crossed and arms crossed over his chest.

"You know where he is. You know," Canada said lowering his eyes dangerously.

"I don't, I don't. I already told you I don't!" Italy cried.

"I find that hard to believe considering you were the last to see him."

"Who told you that?" Italy asked with feigned confusion.

"Nobody needed to tell me. Who else would go to Russia?"

Prussia widened his eyes but didn't make a sound. The countries behind the door began to get antsy as to why Prussia wasn't doing anything or reporting back to them.

"Is it Italy and Canada, Prussia?" Hungary asked eagerly.

" _Ja,_ " Prussia said. Italy jolted and spun around.

"P-Prussia! When did you get there?" Italy asked with a wavering voice.

"Oh, you know. A couple minutes ago," Prussia responded back casually not missing the way Italy tensed.

"So now you get nervous," Canada said cooly.

Prussia could have sworn Italy growled but he spun around again and looked to Canada with large doe eyes. "Let's not kill the Italian, si? I can make you some yummy pasta if you let me live!" Italy said.

Canada exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. Not this again.

"I don't want pasta, I want to know where you hid Russia."

"Hid Russia? Russia's missing?" America said popping his head out from the mahogany doors.

Canada walked past Italy briskly and was about to walk past the double doors, but America's hand stopped him from walking away.

"Mattie, you okay?" America asked with concern. Canada lowered his eyes. America didn't know that he and Russia have been seeing each other for some time because he never bothered to notice or care.

"Yeah."

America straightened, and Canada cursed in his head. Canada was the older one yet America always saw that the duty of the protected was he.

"You're not foolin' me. Something is up," America stated searching Canada's face.

"Can we please not talk about this right now? I'm in a hurry," Canada said trying to remove America's hand.

"What's going on here?" England asked behind America.

"Nothing, England. America is just being nosy again," Canada said in what he hoped was convincing. England studied Canada's face for a moment. He studied how his lips desperately wanted to frown, how the eyebrow muscles jump to furrow, and how if it was just between them, a hiss would be coming out of his throat instead of a hidden beg.

It really seemed as though Canada hasn't changed much since his colony days. He still clutched extremely tight to the things he held dear. He clutched and engrained his fingers into what he wanted to preserve making sure it wouldn't escape his fingers. It was his. And he couldn't call many things that now could he?

"America, let Canada go," England commanded.

"No! Something is up!" America denied fiercely.

While this commotion happened, Italy slowly backed away. He was about to run away, but Prussia stopped him with his rough hand.

"And where is my little Ita going?" Prussia said with a sickeningly sweet smile. Italy breathed heavily and couldn't stop himself from gulping.

"Alright, back to the meeting room! Shit needs to be said!" Prussia said looking back to America, Canada, and England. Prussia tightened his grip on Italy's shoulder when he saw the back of Prussia's white head.

America was all too glad to drag Canada back to the meeting room along with Prussia tugging Italy inside.

Italy gulped when he saw all the countries staring holes into his figure. He felt as though Prussia's hand on his shoulder was a handcuff and his airy words the jaundiced key.

"So! We have ourselves a real-life catfight!" Prussia said cheerfully.

"What's going on?" China asked with furrowed brows.

Italy sat down next to Austria, and Austria looked down on Italy with a raised a brow. Italy closed his eyes and let a breath out.

"Yeah, Mattie. What the hell is going on?" America asked.

Canada and Italy's eyes met, the silent conversation irritating every nation at the table.

"A misunderstanding is all," Canada finally said with blankness.

It sent a shiver down America's spine. _Canada was pissed._

"About what?" France asked practically oozing with the need for gossip. He knew all about Canada's lover (he was the one to even point out that Canada was crushing hard) and how hush hush it was to America.

"Nothing important," Canada waved off.

Prussia sighed dramatically and unnecessarily. "Yaaawn! You guys were about bitch slap each other."

Austria looked surprised, but Italy didn't necessarily deny it.

"You want to know what was so bad? You want to know?" Canada began boring his eyes into Prussia's. Prussia's smile slowly fell away from his face.

"I went to go see if Russia was really in his room like Italy had said. If he was really sick. It's believable, eh? He's still not fully recovered from the USSR being broken up, and America punched him in the nose and gut yesterday. He's bound to not be feeling well," Canada was looking directly only at Prussia's eyes but his voice was loud enough for the whole room to hear, "So I went to go check. I knocked on his door, and no one answered. I assumed he was asleep. Believable, believable. I open his room and you know what's real funny? Russia isn't there. He's gone."

"Wait...you mean Russia wasn't in his room?" France recapped taking in the information quickly.

Canada shook his head. He turned his sight to France, and France wished he could hug away his little Canada's pain away.

"He wasn't. His room was empty. When I asked the receptionists, they told me he was last seen leaving the building at midnight. But they had thought it was just their imagination."

"Wait," America interjected, "How did you get into Russia's room? You need his key for that."

Canada froze. _Shit, shit, shit, shit._

Canada didn't respond, and America stared unblinking waiting for an answer. "Well."

"..."

"..."

"He gave it to me," Canada finally mumbled.

"HE WHAT."

"That's not our problem right now, what _I_ want to know is why Italy was so pissed," Prussia said saving Canada.

The attention was back on Italy. Japan sent Italy an encouraging look, and Italy smiled back.

"It's silly now," Italy replied airily, seemingly back to normal with his happy demeanor and closed eyes.

"Obviously not," Austria cut in sharply. Italy winced as if whipped.

"Well, Canada called me a liar, and I guess I called him one too."

Prussia raised a brow. "And how is little Birdie a liar?"

"I was in a bad mood, I didn't mean it! I really didn't mean it," Italy whimpered.

"What did you say?" Austria demanded again curtly. Hungary had her hands folded in her lap with tightly shut lips. Italy felt them to his right and wanted to curl up. He wanted to run away, he doesn't want to turn around, he doesn't need to turn around. Hungary and Austria are side by side, Austria speaking knives and Hungary looking at him with sorrowful eyes. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed! _Nothing has changed!_

Italy breathed out a choked breath of air. He couldn't say.

" _Italy._ "

"You know, maybe I was overreacting," Canada intoned thoughtfully.

"What are you —" America began.

"Yeah. I was overreacting. I assumed it was Italy when it probably wasn't. Italy probably had no part in this. Probably. Russia is pretty stealthy. He could have come back without the receptionists knowing, and Italy probably did see Russia sick. And Russia is probably out there buying vodka like the idiot he is," Canada finished.

America squinted his eyes slightly. "Um, what."

"Yeah. Italy, I'm sorry," Canada said with no change in tone. His eyes were blank and his violet eyes had yet to lighten up.

"You forgive me?" Italy spoke as if he wouldn't forgive himself either.

Canada nodded. "Yep. No hard feelings, eh?"

"Ah. Okay..." Italy said not really sure how to feel.

America whooped. "That's what I'm talking about! See, see, see. U.N. goals and shit. All thanks to me, of course."

England sighed. "Yes. Crisis averted, I suppose. If anyone actually knew what the crisis was."

France flipped his hair and let out a forlorn sigh. His poor little Canada.

"How about we read an entry?" Hungary suggested clapping her hands together.

America brightened. "Oh yeah! Italy, take out the journal, won't ya?"

Italy felt the cool journal through his jacket and held it with his nimble fingers not missing Canada's sharp eyes on his movements.

"I think Italy should read this time," Japan said startling the others from his unusual amount of participation.

"Any objections?" America asked surveying the room. "Can I read the next one?" Hungary asked. America looked at Italy.

"Sure Hungary," Italy agreed happily.

Hungary smiled and Prussia leaned back in his chair. "Wait, before she starts reading I want to say something," Prussia said as Hungary flipped through the journal.

"And that is?" Hungary asked.

"In the last entry...about West getting alcohol poisoning...that wasn't me."

"What do you mean by that wasn't you?" France asked.

"I didn't go back with West to a hotel. Whoever that was beside him in the bed wasn't me. I left the bar when an officer called me over to review some plans. I left early that night, and I told West this, but I'm telling ya, he was _smashed."_

The news sunk in like a heavy blanket. "So you're telling us...that he had...a one night stand?" England said with the words rolling off his tongue as if he were testing the words himself and thinking, yes, he was saying what everyone is concurring.

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying that wasn't me. It could have been anyone. Who knows, it could have been another country."

All eyes pointed to Italy. "Hm?"

The eyes looked away. "Was it a guy or girl?" Hungary asked eagerly for details.

"Shit Hungary let me go call West and ask him real quick. He says it was a hermaphrodite," Prussia snapped.

Hungary crossed her arms. "No need to be a dick."

"I don't know Hungary. But for all our sakes, let's just assume it was a dude. Happy?"

Austria made a look of disgust. China did as well.

"Fine, a girl!" Prussia conceded.

That sent a cold wave down Italy's spine.

"Alright, who did it?" America asked.

"What? Go out with Germany that night?" Hungary asked for clarification.

America nodded vigorously. "Yeah, it's better to just confess now, dudes. Don't worry, this is a no bully and drug-free zone!"

"What bullshit," China muttered. France heard and chuckled.

America took it as a sign that France wanted to talk and share the truth. "Was it you? Well, I guess we can always rely on France to make things saucy, haha!"

England cringed at the loud laughter. It was horribly misplaced and very unbefitting for the situation. How America could find anything humorous at the moment was something he didn't want to know.

" _Non._ It wasn't me," France replied with a tone that spoke, _why the hell would I?_

America, thankfully, saw through the tone. "How about —?"

"We are not going to play twenty-questions, America," England cut in rather forcefully. Anything could be considered "evidence" at this point. Who knew what kind of theories the other countries could form simply by just answering yes or no to a question that was bound to fail. Everything was a lie now, wasn't it? Besides, England already had a pretty good idea as to what was going on, but he didn't want to utter the words out loud. The victim was not in the room, and England would be terribly shocked if the person was.

"Oh, okay...Welp, that's good to know. I guess we can't make fun of Germany for being a virgin anymore," America mused out loud quickly getting over that he couldn't play detective.

"I suppose we cannot," England agreed distracted in thought.

"No one said anything about sex," China said being literal as always.

"Picking up clothes? Gone by morning? Warm body breathing? A total one night stand, dude," America said with some mirth.

"But maybe Germany didn't carry out the act," Japan intones, "He is a private man."

"Whatcha mean by that?"

"Exactly what it means, America. China and Japan are right, we cannot assume anything. There is not enough evidence to support anything," England said with finality. He ignored America's grumbling of, "If you had let me continue..."

But the thought still lingered.

Perhaps Italy was not Germany's one and only.

...

 _ **"03. September 1939**_

 ** _O_ _n this day in history, France and England have declared war._**

 _ **Japan, Italy, and I are officially against the other nations. It is because of Poland's threat of independence they say. I didn't harm Poland too bad. Poland was popping his gum when I snuck up on him, and he screamed when I whacked him on the head. He's so dramatic.**_

 _ **War is not a great thing. I am not insane enough to make such a claim, but I cannot help but stare proudly at my tanks. Soon enough I will be supreme...For I am He, just as He is me…**_

 _ **Brother refuses to speak to me. He is livid although I cannot see why. Neither of us has liked Poland all that much before. His grudges, they can be deep. But are they directed toward me?**_

 _ **No matter, I have things to do.**_

 _ **How long will this war last? Some say a year, some don't even think it's a war at all. The Second World War. The Ending of the World."**_

"That's it," Hungary said.

"That was short," America said.

"Did you guys pick up anything strange?" she asked thumbing the next page and looking for any clues in the cursive.

"I always thought Prussia was all pro-World War Two. Why were you so against it?" America asked facing Prussia.

Prussia shrugged rather jerkily. "It wasn't awesome."

Hungary continued on as to not provoke inquiry.

 _ **"01. April 1941**_

 ** _Italy is the most aggravating soldier I have ever trained. When he tried to invade the Northern African countries, it was untimely me who had to save him._**

 _ **He is driving me mad. He won't run, he can barely hold a machine gun upright, and he throws the grenades the wrong way. He trips on his shoelaces for crying out loud. He is useless!**_

 _ **Why did I make an alliance with him again? If it had only been Japan, this would go much smoother. I didn't think accepting Italy as an ally would be this taxing on me. There are so many battles I could have spent somewhere else…"**_

Hungary gauged Italy's reaction quickly with a glance of her brown eyes and read faster to not make Italy sadder.

 **" _I need to do something about this. Italy cannot rely on me so much. The only way he actually follows orders is if I am the captain. His cowardice will be the death of him — will be the death of me because I always have to save him. I can't just let him die. I would miss that idiot."_**

Hungary couldn't contain her cooing. "Are you blushing?"

Italy looked down and felt his cheeks burn brighter. Prussia sighed.

She giggled. "Sorry, sorry. I'll continue."

 **" _He's my only friend. Italy was worried that I would forget about him because I was getting friendly with Russia. As if I can forget about Italy._**

 _ **(Italy if you are reading this, my boss is going to invade Russia really soon. There goes that alliance.)"**_

"Wait a minute, why would Germany be addressing directly to Italy?" America asked.

"Maybe Germany knew Italy would eventually maybe read this?" Hungary suggested confused as well.

"That seems weird."

"I think it's just a coincidence," Prussia voiced. America sent him a questioning gaze.

"Trust me," he stated leaning forward, "West definitely would rather burn than ever have this read by anyone. I didn't even know that he had this thing until he went missing."

"If you say so, dude," America said not fully believing it. Hungary picked up where she left off.

 **" _Either way, training with Japan and Italy has really helped to get my mind off of things._**

 _ **Brother makes his periodic visits but he's usually out doing something 'awesome'. Him and France argue so intensely these days, and Spain, well, he's busy with his own internal affairs.**_

 _ **Italy's constant presence forces me to forget about what is really happening outside. My day now consists of making sure Italy doesn't die from doing something incredibly stupid like rolling down a hill from sleeping. Japan makes for good company too but he usually leaves after training. He seems to be busy as of late with his naval affairs, taking pride in a major plan he has coming up. He won't reveal what it is, but he seems eager."**_

Japan shifted very uncomfortable at America's intense stare. Japan had to remind himself that America did worse to him than he did to him, and with that Japan's dead glare was enough justification for what America was trying to make him feel guilty for.

 **" _Now that I think about it, most of my day consists of spending time with Italy. I'm usually eating with him, taking walks with him, getting calls from him to go save him. Even in my sleep, I can't seem to get rid of him. He's always there by morning in my bed and it's frustrating to wake up. I wonder just how well he and his brother get along if he's always with me._**

 _ **(I've finally learned that I didn't see Northern Italy back in the 1800s, it had been Romano.)**_

 _ **When Italy isn't around, the house is quiet. This leaves me with work and an aching neck. I've been getting horrible headaches lately. Austria's 'remedies' aren't useful, playing the piano only can do so much for a migraine. My head is always pounding, and I get moments of intense nausea. I hear voices bickering and crying out for help and —"**_

Hungary stopped reading when the meeting doors slammed open, the sound echoing all the way to the floor and the soles of their feet. The walls shook from the sound, and for a moment she thought a musket had fired. Hungary turned around and gasped when she saw that the wall had a deep hole from where the doorknob met the wall. What shocked her more was the figure by the door.

"Russia? What happened to you!" Hungary cried putting the book down, the pages flipping lazily to one side.

Russia was dripping wet, his soaked uniform leaving tiny puddles on the floor. In his gloved hand, he held his icy pipe, the temperature outside not melting the freezing crystallization. His hair was flat against his forehead, and his skin glistened slightly under the lights. His fringe leaked as if taking a shower, and water dripped from his pale chin onto the white tile.

Russia was breathing heavily, his chest rising up and down, up and down. His once light brown boots were now ones of a dirty mud pigment, and they sloshed when he walked forward. He did not answer Hungary's question. He growled a feral growl and swung his pipe down to her.

Hungary moved away by reflex and landed frazzled on Austria's chest who was there behind her ready to place a hand on her shoulder. Hungary gaped wide-eyed as Russia moved on forward as if not bothered that he just broke off a piece of the table. He trudged toward Italy, his eyes darkening when he saw Italy cowering behind Japan.

America jumped out of his seat. "What the fuck Russia! You almost killed Hungary!"

"This doesn't concern you America," Russia bit out lowly. He did not stray away from his path, not even bothering to look back at America. The gauze on his nose was gone, his nose going back to normal, yet his ribs still ached and his stomach still felt incredibly sore.

" _Ave, o Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore č con te. Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto —"_ Italy chanted holding onto his cross desperately.

"How cute! Little Italy is praying! Say hello to God for me when you go up there, comrade!" Russia said with a large smile.

Italy shrieked and starting chanting more jumbled up Italian prayers faster.

Russia stepped closer, and Japan squared his stance and fanned out his arms in front of Italy. Italy was now saying prayers and mixing in help and surrenders into the verses.

America marched toward Russia livid, fist clenched and angry. "Pig shit! Leave Italy alone!"

Russia did not take the bait. He was glaring daggers at Japan, and Japan held a cool expression of unrelenting.

"Italy and I have unfinished business, comrade," Russia said raising his arm to strike Japan. Japan tensed but did not move. Russia moved his arm downward, and Japan shut his eyes bracing himself to the familiar feeling of being hit by Russia's steel weapon.

America stopped Russia from hitting Japan by latching onto him by his back, both his large hands over Russia's chest and pulling him back harshly before he could swing down entirely. Russia gasped, his ribs feeling like fire and his lungs shriveled up with no oxygen. He stumbled back with America, feeling too much pain to think clearly.

A sloshing sound was heard and France shrieked when he saw Russia's lonely heart still beat on the cold floor.

Oh. It had fallen out again.

Russia thrashed like a caged animal trying to escape America's grip. But it was no use, it was like trying to run with a three-ton iron weight shackled on your ankle.

"Calm. The fuck. Down," America grunted in between breaths. America almost forgot how thick Russia's build was.

" _Nyet! Nyet!_ Let me go!" Russia screamed.

America winced at the freezing temperature of Russia's clothes, feeling the wetness soak through his own thin shirt. Russia kept struggling, swinging his pipe madly in hope that it will hit America. America had enough and kneed Russia, causing him to immediately bow down to the floor. America grabbed Russia's wrist with the pipe and started to twist his whole arm backward slowly and deliberately.

Russia grits his teeth in pain but did not scream.

"Are you going to calm down now?" America demanded.

"Let me go."

America shook his head disappointed and forced that arm even further causing Russia to bite his cheek in pure agony.

"You're makin' me feel guilty here. Come on, just stop being psycho and shit, 'kay?" America said casually twisting the arm even more.

Russia felt his jaw throb painfully from the amount of biting he was doing. He refused to scream. To submit.

America sighed. He unwrapped the arm and simply grabbed the left wrist and put them both behind Russia's back.

"I'll just take that, thank you!" America said as he took the pipe from Russia's loosening grip. He was feeling so cold and tired…

The rest watched fascinated and disgusted: fascinated at how easily and well-rehearsed America sedated Russia into submission and disgusted that it had to be blatantly cruel and casual.

"Give me my pipe back," Russia growled dangerously.

America was unfazed. "Naw. I don't think I will, Soviet Union. Oh whoops, I mean, _Federation."_

Canada felt himself still. His eyes threatened to leak tears. Why was America so hateful to Russia still? Why can't he move on? And why was Russia soaking wet? He should be helping Russia not standing there like a useless little kid. His legs should be moving, he should be doing something! He _should —_

Canada clenched his fist.

Italy opened his eyes and saw Russia on the ground with both arms behind his back from America.

"R-Russia?"

Russia flared when he heard Italy's voice. " _Italiya!_ "

Italy flinched.

"What in the bloody hell is going on!" England finally demanded fed up.

"That's a good question," America said.

"Russia what happened to you?" China asked worriedly, his brown eyes searching.

"Yeah, Russia, what's got you so beat up?" Prussia pondered in a sing-song voice.

Russia ignored them all and had only eyes for Italy. Italy moved a bit, and Russia jumped to get up immediately as if he were a shark ready to pounce at the slightest smell of blood in the water. America restrained him seeing the way Russia's sharp shoulder blades flexed tautly through the coat.

"R-Russia, Good to see you're feeling all better! Don't kill me!" Italy cried wishing he had his white flag with him. He briefly thought of using the white napkin but decided against it.

"Kol, kol, kol, kol, kol, kol," Russia chattered radiating a purple glow.

"Calm the fuck down already!" America shouted struggling to stop Russia from leaping up and strangling Italy.

" _Nyet._ I will beat Italy with bare hands for drowning me."

"Drowning you? What the hell are you talking about?" America asked shocked. Canada's eye widened, and he immediately looked to Italy's stiffening figure.

Russia stopped struggling and opted to glower at Italy. America felt Russia still and looked down in suspicion. Italy stopped shaking and stepped out of protective stance, exposing himself fully.

"Italy?" Japan asked confused, lowering his arms and turning his face to him.

"How did you get out, Russia?" Italy asked in all seriousness.

"Italy," Hungary breathed out surprised.

Russia bit down on his teeth. "The river does not stay frozen all day. It breaks apart in the morning. Did comrade forget this?"

"You brought this on yourself."

Russia exhaled heavily. "And _how_ did I deserve to be drowned in a frozen river?"

Italy finally glared viciously. "Don't leave out the part where you chased me, Russia. You weren't being friendly, to begin with. Do you take me as a fool?" Italy hissed, some nations backing up unconsciously.

"Yes. Give me back what you stole, _n_ _iegadzai!_ "

Italy was actually offended by this. He began walking toward Russia saying, "What I stole? What _I_ stole? No, no. It's not stealing when you're getting something back that is yours, to begin with."

"...What is it that you took, little Italy?" Russia asked.

Italy stopped and marched to the table to snatch the little book from the table. He walked back to Russia's face. " _This._ This is what you stole!"

Russia widened his eyes, and America felt the anger flee and percolate out of Russia's body. "Oh. I had almost forgotten about that. You didn't take anything else?" Russia said much lighter and happier.

Italy creased his brows."No? What else would I want from you?"

Russia smiled wider. "Oh nothing, nothing."

"So wait. You kept the journal from Italy, Russia?" Prussia asked with a tight frown.

Russia was about to speak but Italy beat him to it. "It's actually pretty interesting. Russia had a little partner in crime! Isn't that right, _America?_ _"_

All eyes turned to America, and he tightened his hold from the intense looks of suspicion. "What are you talking about Italy, I wasn't anywhere near Russia last night."

"That's not how it looked like to me," Italy turned to England, "I'm sorry, England…."

England furrowed his eyebrows, glancing side to side quickly. "Why do you say that, Italy?"

The room waited with bated breath as it waited for Italy to finally say, "Because it wasn't just enough for America to hand Russia the journal...They kissed too…"

" _What?_ " England hissed turning and boring holes into America's uncomfortable figure.

"Okay, now you're just making shit up! I wouldn't kiss Russia, what the fuck — no! No, no, no!" America denied shaking his head as if the words off his tongue were poisonous and acrid to simply spill out of his throat.

"England, was America with you last night?" Italy asked.

"No…" England replied back. America felt his shoulders stiffen.

"I was with Canada! I wasn't with Russia! Tell 'em, bro," America countered desperately at the continuing looks of distrust from the other sitting nations and the staggering hurt in England's eyes.

Canada nodded rapidly, earnestly. "It's true, he was with me! He wasn't near Russia or doing anything like that."

"When?" Prussia demanded.

"A little after ten, I think," Canada saw the side glances and quickly followed up with, "But I'm sure he wasn't with Russia! I trust in him, he was probably out eating, right?"

Austria pursed his lips. "Of course you would trust him Canada, he is your brother. We can only hope you are not a liar because just how valuable is your word?"

"Hey, Birdie doesn't lie, right? Birdie's a good kid," Prussia defended. Canada looked away.

"But then what was the commotion with Italy and Canada just now...you know, when Canada got all fidgety and secretive," Hungary voiced but then immediately regretted it.

"Did you kiss Russia, America?" England demanded.

"No!" He shook his head so rapidly that his light glasses fell down his nose slightly. "You honestly don't think that I would so something like that, would you?"

"I don't think I quite believe that," Austria contradicted pushing up his glasses.

"I saw America as well," Japan confirmed.

America squawked. "You too Japan?! What the fuck — where is all of this coming from! I wasn't with Russia — not then, not now, not in the future for god's sake. I hate the guy, and he hates me back."

"Convincing alibi. But I still remember what happened during the Cold War," England spat out already packing up his briefcase.

"What happened in the Cold War?" France asked.

Russia tilted his head. "You never told?"

"Shut the fuck up, bastard," America threatened venomously bruising Russia's wrists.

"We haven't asked Russia if this is true or not," China said with arms crossed over his chest.

England clutched on the handle of his briefcase, the leather hot in his palm. "Well, is it?"

Russia tensed, and Canada looked at him worried. Canada's face was distressed, and Russia knew that Canada was on the verge of just screaming out the truth and shoving America away. Canada wanted to move yet Russia knew why he would not.

Russia looked down and felt everyone's burning gaze on him, piercing through his clothing and into his soul. What to do. What to do. What to do...

He then smiled.

" _Da_. It is true."

England clenched his jaw, and nobody commented how his eyes were getting glossy. "I see."

"Russia! You're feeding them lies, you and I both know that would never happen!" America barked out aggressively.

"That's not what you said last night, _luchik,_ " Russia sighed out fondly.

"I see. If you'll excuse me, I will be leaving the meeting now," England said marching out the door and not looking back.

America let go of Russia's hands immediately and ran after England. "Wait! England! You've got it all wrong!" America disappeared somewhere in those long hallways, and Russia stood up slowly and fatigued. He's swaying, and he could barely hold up his stance straight.

Russia was used to the hate but it seemed as though Italy was not.

"How could you Russia?" Hungary asked quietly.

Russia shrugged. "I did not approach first if that makes you feel better."

"Well, fuck. Who would have thought," Prussia said.

"Are you sure it was America, Italy? Japan? Are you sure it wasn't someone else?" France asked not quite convinced. In fact, by his little Canada's horribly sad face he _knew_ it wasn't America. But nations were surprising, he had to remind himself and intentions were fluid and just as valid as smoke.

"I was sure of it," Italy affirmed with an assured nod of the head. "Who else would have blonde hair, is tall, and have a brown coat?"

"I can say that I saw America's figure as well," Japan said taking a seat beside China who was still not speaking or voicing how suspicious everything was playing out to be.

Japan's word held much more weight than Italy's. If Japan said it was America...why would he lie about that?

"Wait a minute, that description fits someone in this room very well!" Prussia said startling the others. Prussia pointed a finger to France.

"France!"

France put a hand over his chest. "I would never! I do not chase after taken men, Prussia. Russia is quite lovely, but ah."

"None taken, comrade," Russia said lightly.

"See? Nothing going on between us."

"Taken man? Who are you insinuating, France?" Hungary asked.

"No one," France said in what he hoped was a casual manner. It was not.

"An affair of sorts?" Austria suggested.

"France just told us nothing was going on between him and Russia," Hungary commented after not fully convinced either.

"Are we all going to forget the fact that _Italy drowned Russia?"_ China said frustrated that such a frivolous topic was being discussed.

"Oh yes. That," Austria said dismissively.

"I think this needs to be talked about further! Russia could have died!" China insisted.

Prussia waved his hand. "Right. As if we can die from a little cold."

"This is serious. Italy is dangerous! We've been deceived!"

And when China said it out loud the reality finally sunk in. Italy had left Russia breathless and gurgling for help in a night black as a raven's feather with a remorse not shown in the present; in those freezing waters where the blue feels like sharp, small daggers, Russia would have died if he had been Ivan Braginski.

Hungary's eyes widened. "Oh, my."

"Drowning is such a nasty word," Austria amended right after.

"Drowning Russia...Sounds awesome."

They all gave Prussia a dirty look.

"I mean. That's bad. Not awesome, Italy."

China huffed. "Do you see now?"

"Why did you do it?" France asked narrowing his eyes.

Italy tilted his head, his bangs shifting due to the gravity. "Why do you ask that?"

France bit his cheek. "Why did you drown Russia?"

Italy didn't say anything, and for a moment they thought he was going to burst into tears and beg for forgiveness. It's always been that way. Italy usually didn't last very long when it came to social disapproval.

"It wasn't my intention. He wasn't supposed to drown."

Hungary was sad that Italy had to act this way. It was so unlike him, yet she knew deep down, perhaps this is how he's always been.

"Doesn't change the fact that you _drowned Russia!"_ China kept repeating. Was it not processing in anyone's minds that Russia could have died in freezing waters — died one of the worst ways to die?

"I don't like things being stolen. Especially things that are very important to me," Italy responded back fully facing China.

Prussia glanced back to Canada, and Canada was ready to draw back a fist and apologize at the same time. It was an interesting mix as Canada's eyes showed such an interesting emotion. Prussia smiled pleased.

"Italy…" France trailed off. Italy didn't look like it, but he had moments of brattiness and aggressiveness. He cared very little about everything, cared much for the deep things, and cared deeply for the things he had a scarcity of a time when he had much.

"I — I can't believe it…!" Hungary said.

"I can't believe you're hiding something from me, but here we are," Italy remarked cheerfully. It wasn't creepy if you're always happy, right?

"Hungary, you have something to say?" France asked curiously.

Prussia moved closer to Canada. Hungary let her tongue stay put but kept Canada's posture in her peripheral vision. He better not have told Italy.

"Silence makes guilt scream much louder," China reminded.

"I'm not guilty of anything, okay? I don't have anything to hide, so I have nothing to speak of," Hungary snapped.

"Suspicious," Prussia sang.

Hungary glared at Prussia. "AGH! Whose side are you on?"

"Nobody's. I'm filling in for my little bro, remember? And in honor of him, I am staying neutral. I hate you all!" Prussia chirped.

"Good to know," Austria deadpanned. Austria then straightened his back and the countries naturally wandered their attention to him. "I think something should be done about this little...fiasco. A punishment for simplicity."

"A punishment?" Japan murmured.

"Yes. This was out of line and if taken literally, a declaration of war."

There is a mute silence. Italy rocked on the balls of his feet. Nervous or bored, it didn't matter now, does it?

"Russia?" Austria asked turning his head to meet Russia's gaze.

"No war. Too poor, I want to eat," Russia said digging into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper but sighed when he saw it soaked. The numbers were all blurred now.

Austria seemed pleased and unpleased with the answer. "That is good, I suppose. Now, let's actually get the full story here since I'm the only one with a brain it seems. Italy, did you have any help with this endeavor?"

"No."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes."

"Did you try to drown Russia? Can this be confirmed that it was done by your hand?"

"It wasn't my intention. It was accidental."

Russia growled, and China offered an eggroll to calm him down.

"But did you," Austria asked a little more aggressively.

"...Yes," Italy responded blankly.

"Do you feel remorse?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Woah, woah, woah. Why do we have to punish Italy?" Hungary butted in after Italy's silence.

"Are you condoning this behavior, Hungary?" Austria asked sharply.

"We haven't heard his side of the story. There could be more to this!"

"That was what I was doing," Austria responded with his eyebrow twitching slightly.

"What else could it be other than he wanted something, and he had to get rid of Russia to get it?" China asked.

"Those who want to punish Italy, raise your hand. We're taking a vote on this," Hungary instructed not raising her own.

Canada raised his hand and Prussia commented, "Wow, really? Damn, this is new."

China raised his hand immediately and so did Austria. Prussia's stayed down and so did Japan's. It now just left France to break the three versus three tie in the room.

Italy wrung his hands and France cold see the true worry in him. The panic, the fear, the unwavering intensity, the realization that he for once is being labeled as something nefarious. France didn't think Italy should be punished...sweet little Italy shouldn't have to be treated like that…

France knew in his heart that this vote could be the start of something greater. Something that might begin and not know when to end. Just like his revolutions, someone will never be happy and demand things they don't know what do with or why.

He felt the pressure to raise his hand or not as he was just raising it half way.

"France? What do you think?" Hungary prompted.

France knew he was going to regret this later. He kept his hand down.

Austria frowned. "I see."

Hungary smiled triumphed. "Well, it looks like you got off the hook Italy. Nothing too devastating."

Italy smiled relieved.

"But," Austria cut in swiftly, "this act can not go without some consequence."

Italy dropped his smile.

Hungary bit her lip and hated herself for agreeing with Austria.

"I say the journal should be handed to more people," Canada proposed. "To make it more equal."

Italy bore into Canada's eyes and Canada did not look away. Italy's eyes eventually flickered back to Austria's. Were they the same shade of purple, he wondered. Purple was the color of royalty...the color of fierceness and divinity. Italy smiled.

How fitting.

"I don't want it," China stated bluntly.

"I don't think France should have it either," Hungary said sending France her apologies in her mind.

"I do not want it either," Austria said stiffly. Prussia knows why he wouldn't want it. It would be much more haunting to him than to Germany. The words aren't words to him, they are stilled voice recordings. He was there when all of this happened...when _it_ happened.

He doesn't need the journal to preach the nightmare he knows all too well.

Hungary looks uncomfortable too. She still feels as though that isn't her property—not in the sense of Germany's, but someone else's. "Maybe something else…" she says before France walks out in rage.

"Drown him," Russia suggested

Italy shook. Russia smiled. "Drowning in river sounds like a good plan to me, comrades."

"We are not drowning him!... Yeah. We aren't," Hungary repeated to justify it to herself too.

"Eye for eye, da?" Russia persisted more forcefully.

"No, Russia," China disagreed. Russia frowned.

"Embargo!" Prussia chimed.

They all look at him crazily.

"Just a suggestion."

Austria shook his head. "Buffoon. Right now —"

"Right now, we need to go after America and figure out what the hell is going on!" Hungary finished eagerly to mend relationship troubles.

"We don't need to go after them. It's a classic case of cheating. Let them figure that out on their own," Austria dismissed irritated.

"But without America's help, how will Italy continue?" Japan said leaving the room with an uncomfortable feeling. Did they even want Italy to continue this?ˆ

"It's fine, Japan. I don't need America anymore," Italy answered back crossing his hands over one another.

"You don't? I thought you were getting along so well with America," France said confused.

Italy spun around to face France. "Oh, I was. But then things came up. _I don't like secrets."_

France winced. "Right."

"Well, that goes back to our original topic. Does anyone have anything else to share? And no hiding anything this time. We have seen how...devastating a secret can be," Austria said not so discreetly calling Russia out.

"What about the rest of the entry?" Canada asked softly. He would point to Hungary for her secret, but it wasn't her that he was angry at. Now if he had something on Italy...

"Should we continue?" Hungary asked picking up the book again in her hands. She looked around the table and found a table divided between those who want to keep sitting down and listen and those who want to get up and leave already.

"How about this," France began, "Those who want to listen, stay. Those who don't. Leave."

The nations looked to Russia to confirm this, and he just nodded his head. Not many wanted to leave the table in fear of being perceived wrongly. No one could escape the eye of suspicion, and no one wanted to be scrutinized under it. The only one to leave was China because working on exports and imports was more important than the woes of a European nation.

Hungary cleared her throat and began to speak feeling that things were much more somber now.

 **" _I hear voices bickering and crying out for help. The voices make me uneasy. I look around sometimes if the others hear it but they don't._**

 _ **It's like constant radio noise in my head. I can never focus on just one voice, the man and woman whispering loudly in tears and telling me to help and then to stop already. It's as though Austria is slamming the keys to his piano nonstop into my ears, and he won't stop even for sleep.**_

 _ **The only way I can describe it is in the scenario of a crowded diner. Everyone is conversing and talking loudly. The cellos play in the back, and someone claps loudly from the table behind. It's a little hard to concentrate on the table, everyone is so immersed in someone else. Then someone from across the room shouts at you happily. They won't come closer, and you only pick up fragments of the sentence.**_

 _ **It's like I am in that diner at all times, only strings of words coming together to make an incoherent sentence.**_

 _ **But it isn't always bad. They go away sometimes, and I have days where it is just silence.**_

 _ **I don't hear anything right now. That is good I suppose. I wonder when they will come back. What are they? Why do I feel suspicion and resentment pool within me from these voices? Is there something I do not know of? Something Brother isn't telling me — something my boss isn't telling me?"**_

"That's it," Hungary finished.

Murmurs rang through.

"What do you think this means, Italy?" France asked.

Italy bit his lip. He looked to the side to gather his thoughts. Whenever he had talked to Germany (which was a lot) he never seemed out of it back then. He looked at him as attentive as ever and nodded his head as though every word stuck in his brain. He never looked pained and if he did rub his temples, it would be because Italy had done something irritating like leaving the bath water running all night long.

"I think that Germany was in a lot of pain that he never told me," Italy answered crestfallen. He really did look as though as if he was about to cry, but a tear didn't escape. Something about not seeing Italy in tears felt worse.

"Yes, it would seem so," France said.

"Do you think that," Italy began, "the voices could have been his people?"

"His people? We don't actually hear them," Austria said.

"In times of great stress we do," Russia corrected. "It mainly happens in extreme internal conflicts. Civil wars and revolutions, mostly."

"But Germany didn't have that. If anything that would be Spain. But even then, his civil war would have already ended at that point," Canada interjected.

"The Resistance then?" Hungary suggested.

"Could be. Or you know. The Jews," France said.

"...Or that," Italy echoed softly.

"You know, that would make a lot of sense," Hungary pondered out loud, "That makes a whole lot of sense."

"Would it?" France said not expecting an answer to come back.

"Let's just assume it is. Italy, you said you have never read this right?" Canada asked.

"Right," Italy agreed. The rest looked to Prussia to see if this is true. Prussia nodded his head.

"Then that only means what Italy said back then was true. This only helps his point."

"What point?" Austria asked.

"That Germany was helping the Jews back then. Remember that long period of M.I.A. he went through? I'm sure if we read further that will be the explanation for it."

Austria stiffened as though a needle had been placed on the back support of the chair. He looked to his right to meet Hungary's eyes, and her eyes spoke the same as his.

"I thought Austria said to reveal important things," Hungary said smoothly to cover up the reaction.

"But Hungary, you were there with him. We thought you knew since you were part of the Axis and all," Canada said confused.

She laughed. "Of course! Of course, I knew that!" She waved them off as they were the strange ones.

"Hungary is going crazy?" Russia asked.

"No, not crazy," Hungary said folding her hands over her lap.

"So it's settled then? That Germany was out helping the Jews?" France asked. "And if so, what to do with the mysterious lover."

"You're not implying that he was out helping because of that," Austria said appalled.

France shrugged. "Germany is a strange man."

"I do not find that likely."

"But that still leaves the question of the mystery bedmate."

"Can we just drop that subject? It's probably not even important. We all fool around here and there," Hungary said exasperatedly.

"True," France agreed.

"Well, if nothing else is going to be said, I say it's about time we end this thing," Hungary said eager to leave. They were just talking in circles, and the ones that actually had information were not willing to share. She doubted France had anything of value to say because he has not talked with Germany in quite some time, and the others were hiding things that she did not appreciate being kept hidden.

"I agree," Austria said pushing his glasses up.

"Is the meeting over?" Italy asked getting up as well. He looked lost in thought, all previous words flying over his head.

"This meeting is over," Russia confirmed.

France and Austria left immediately. Italy just stood there next to Japan seeing the clear skies of Moscow through the window.

"Are you alright, Russia?" Hungary asked walking toward Russia. "You should probably change into some dry clothes before you come down with something. You're weak enough as it is."

"I'll go with Russia," Canada said putting on his gloves.

"Don't go chasin' Russia, Birdie. He's been called dibs on," Prussia teased in a light tone.

Something passed over Canada that Prussia couldn't decipher.

"Right," Canada said. Prussia scanned Canada over and thought back to what Italy said. And to what Japan said. He furrowed his brows.

"Hey wait a minute. Canada...was that you?" Prussia asked.

Canada stiffened. Meanwhile, Hungary was beginning to let it loose with Russia and that distracted the two males for a second.

"RUSSIA! How could you! England and America are meant for each other! Why would you destroy something like that — something so beautiful?" Hungary was hissing like some kind of cat and glaring daggers.

"Answer me!" Hungary stomped her foot.

" _Nyet._ Not in my place," Russia responded calmly. He went to the floor and picked up his beating heart. He clutched it in his hands, and the organ stayed there in its shades of squishy red and purple rivers.

"This," he held up the convulsing muscle, "This means nothing to me for America. It's still beating, yes? But for someone else, sillies," Russia said placing the heart back in his chest. It was a grotesque sight.

"You still had no right to do that. To go ruining someone's relationship like that. That was so selfish of you," Hungary said thoroughly. Maybe it wasn't what Hungary said, but how she said it. Perhaps she didn't mean to sound condescending, but Russia still did not like to be talked in any form of disrespect.

Russia whipped his head to her. It's always been like this. Russia is savage. Russia is uncivilized. Russia is evil. Russia _really_ isn't European it's _that_ country _over there_ where it's _cold_ and _brutal._ Russia is so poor and behind the times. Russia is only Moscow, everything else doesn't matter.

"I am selfish? I am not the one keeping vital information from our little friend," Russia spat. Hungary's face paled.

Italy glanced over to Hungary from the window.

"Don't think I don't have dirt on you. I know exactly what this little thing is," Hungary said in hope that Russia would be quiet.

"And what is that?"

Italy turned his head. "What's being kept? What are we talking about?"

Hungary almost smiled. "Should I tell him, Russia? I know you were counting on this scheme to get sabotage but you heard Austria. You don't know how devastating a secret can be."

"I tell if you tell first," Russia said neutrally.

"You know, I think I might just do that." Hungary faced Italy's expectant face. "So here's the thing. Wanna know what's been bugging me? You see, Prussia has been trying to keep something from you, and he's been mean to me about because he thinks it's my fault. But! It's actually not! Because his —"

"Don't go mixing up the story Hungary," Prussia warned with a growl. She wasn't. Prussia just didn't think she would actually say it in these circumstances.

Russia didn't think Hungary would actually do it. He panicked internally.

"I am not mixing up the story, you just don't want Italy to know either. You're just as guilty as I am," Hungary bit back.

Canada moved closer to Russia. "I think we should go now."

Russia agreed. "Let's go."

Hungary saw Russia about to leave the door, and she couldn't have that either. "Wait! Just where do you think you're going?"

"Out of room. My country, my rules. Goodbye!" Russia said blowing them a kiss and then closing the door. Canada smiled but they weren't sure if he did or not before the heavy door closed shut quickly.

Now it was just Prussia, Hungary, Italy, and Japan.

"That damn Russia. He agreed he wouldn't do something stupid," Hungary muttered angrily.

"Hungary. It was Canada, wasn't it. That was the big secret, wasn't it?" Prussia said trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

Hungary blinked surprised. "You figured it out?... I mean no! Of course not!"

"Yeah. It was." She smiled a bit. "Congrats. You figured it out. Russia and Canada are dating."

Prussia ran his hand through his hair. "I should have known." Prussia grabbed his jacket and shoved his arms into the sleeves. "I see how it is. I see _exactly_ how it is."

"Wait, where are you going? It doesn't change the fact that America cheated or anything," Hungary followed up before Italy could comment.

Prussia turned sharply towards her. "Are you a dumbass? It was never America, Hungary. It was Canada. America didn't cheat on England, and Russia just said that to have sabotage. You said this before!"

"...I guess I can't keep playing dumb. But what are you going to do?"

"Don't worry about me. You worry about yourself." And then Prussia stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut angrily.

Hungary looked down. She felt her eyes start to sting. "What have you done. What have you done?" Her voice was soft, the disbelief an echo of what she had wanted to say all along.

"It wasn't America. I was wrong?" Italy asked shocked. He turned around to Japan with wide eyes. "We were wrong, Japan!"

"It would seem so."

Hungary shook her head sadly. "I can't say I'm much better, huh?" She left the room, her heels making soft clicking sounds as she opened the door and closed it gently behind her.

Now it was just Italy and Japan. Italy looked out to the window and almost expected Hungary to be out there, but he knew that would be wishful thinking.

"Do you think they hate me now?" Italy asked.

Japan moved to Italy's side. "It is not a matter of love or hate at this point."

...

 **Italiya — _Italy in Russian_**

 **Niegadzai — _Good for nothing in Russian. A pretty tame insult, actually. If you want to spice up your sailor's mouth, look up Russian insults._**

 **Luchik — _Ray of light in Russian. A term of endearment for your special someone. I thought it was cute and fitting for the implied RusAme._**

 **Japan's Naval Planning — _Japan had been planning Pearl Harbor since April of 1941. Thus the angry glare from America._**

 ** _..._**

 **Well, that was melodramatic af. Sorry guys, my love for novellas gets the best of me sometimes.**

 **I don't have much to say than thank you once again~! Shout outs to Kimsworrall and Pfeh for reviewing and sticking through. I hoped this chapter didn't totally suck :P See you guys in the next one and don't forget to review!**


End file.
